I

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning summer hued the deck

And made one think of rosy chocolate
And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green
Gave suavity to the perplexed machine

Of ocean, which like limpid water lay.
Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude
Out of the light evolved the morning blooms,

Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds
Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm?
C'etait mon enfant, mon bijou, mon ame.

The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm
And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green
And in its watery radiance, while the hue

Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled
Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea
Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue.

                        II

In that November off Tehuantepec
The slopping of the sea grew still one night.
At breakfast jelly yellow streaked the deck

And made one think of chop-house chocolate
And sham umbrellas. And a sham-like green
Capped summer-seeming on the tense machine

Of ocean, which in sinister flatness lay.
Who, then, beheld the rising of the clouds
That strode submerged in that malevolent sheen,

Who saw the mortal massives of the blooms
Of water moving on the water-floor?
C'etait mon frere du ciel, ma vie, mon or.

The gongs rang loudly as the windy booms
Hoo-hooed it in the darkened ocean-blooms.
The gongs grew still. And then blue heaven spread

Its crystalline pendentives on the sea
And the macabre of the water-glooms
In an enormous undulation fled.

                        III

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And a pale silver patterned on the deck

And made one think of porcelain chocolate
And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green,
Piano-polished, held the tranced machine

Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds,
Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms
Unfolding in the water, feeling sure

Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then,
The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds?
Oh! C'etait mon extase et mon amour.

So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds,
The shrouding shadows, made the petals black
Until the rolling heaven made them blue,

A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth,
And smiting the crevasses of the leaves
Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue.

                        IV

In that November off Tehuantepec
The night-long slopping of the sea grew still.
A mallow morning dozed upon the deck

And made one think of musky chocolate
And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green
Suggested malice in the dry machine

Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem.
Who then beheld the figures of the clouds
Like blooms secluded in the thick marine?

Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off
From the loosed girdles in the spangling must.
C'etait ma foi, la nonchalance divine.

The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn
Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing,
Would--But more suddenly the heaven rolled

Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green,
And the nakedness became the broadest blooms,
Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled.

                        V

In that November off Tehuantepec
Night stilled the slopping of the sea.
The day came, bowing and voluble, upon the deck,

Good clown... One thought of Chinese chocolate
And large umbrellas. And a motley green
Followed the drift of the obese machine

Of ocean, perfected in indolence.
What pistache one, ingenious and droll,
Beheld the sovereign clouds as jugglery

And the sea as turquoise-turbaned *****, neat
At tossing saucers--cloudy-conjuring sea?
C'etait mon esprit batard, l'ignominie.

The sovereign clouds came clustering. The conch
Of loyal conjuration *******. The wind
Of green blooms turning crisped the motley hue

To clearing opalescence. Then the sea
And heaven rolled as one and from the two
Came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.

By those soft tods of wool
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I’ the flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest:
O my Electra! be
In love with none but me.

[Dedicated to Austin Osman Spare]

Have pity ! show no pity !
Those eyes that send such shivers
Into my brain and spine : oh let them
Flame like the ancient city
Swallowed up by the sulphurous rivers
When men let angels fret them !

Yea ! let the south wind blow,
And the Turkish banner advance,
And the word go out : No quarter !
But I shall hod thee -so !
While the boys and maidens dance
About the shambles of slaughter !

I know thee who thou art,
The inmost fiend that curlest
Thy vampire tounge about
Earth's corybantic heart,
Hell's warrior that whirlest
The darts of horror and doubt !

Thou knowest me who I am
The inmost soul and saviour
Of man ; what hieroglyph
Of the dragon and the lamb
Shall thou and I engrave here
On Time's inscandescable cliff ?

Look ! in the plished granite,
Black as thy cartouche is with sins,
I read the searing sentence
That blasts the eyes that scan it :
"**** and SET be TWINS."
A fico for repentance !

Ay ! O Son of my mother
That snarled and clawed in her womb
As now we rave in our rapture,
I know thee, I love thee, brother !
Incestuous males that consumes
The light and the life that we capture.

Starve thou the soul of the world,
Brother, as I the body !
Shall we not glut our lust
On these wretches whom Fate hath hurled
To a hell of jesus and shoddy,
Dung and ethics and dust ?

Thou as I art Fate.
Coe then, conquer and kiss me !
Come ! what hinders? Believe me :
This is the thought we await.
The mark is fair ; can you miss me ?

See, how subtly I writhe !
Strange runes and unknown sigils
I trace in the trance that thrills us.
Death ! how lithe, how blithe
Are these male incestuous vigils !
Ah ! this is the spasm that kills us !

Wherefore I solemnly affirm
This twofold Oneness at the term.
Asar on Asi did beget
Horus twin brother unto Set.
Now Set and Horus kiss, to call
The Soul of the Unnatural
Forth from the dusk ; then nature slain
Lets the Beyond be born again.

This weird is of the tongue of Khem,
The Conjuration used of them.
Whoso shall speak it, let him die,
His bowels rotting inwardly,
Save he uncover and caress
The God that lighteth his liesse.

I wander down the path
Seemingly still and quiet
No shadows in sight
But a light so bright
What could be, this Enigma?
I’m mesmerized, so transfixed
And with its grace and beauty
It rejects every stigma

my Invigoration
simple conjuration
of feeble elation
becomes condemnation
an exacerbation
of lost contemplation

falling to the floor i find myself
beyond salvation and left to starvation
I did not choose this, to feel this, or to be thrown away
My intentions are gold, no ill will in sight
but they choose to see what they want

HARK!
A figure engulfs the horizon
Shrouded and concealed from the world
It charges forth as a familiar phantom
It strikes me back as I stagger away
Its cloak blackens the sky to my dismay
as air evaporates bleeding my mind astray
but hope is in sight for I have found a knife!
again and again, Brutus would be proud
for the pool beneath the figure must end my strife
and to the figure, I remove its cowl
lo and behold, the face is my own
reality then breaks at the seams
to have this fate, I couldn’t have known
lost and diluted much like my dreams
My hands remain red
Trapped in my own head

It's unhealthy, I think.
Night after night
in the small hours
I am still awake
Thinking, hurting, writing
I intoxicate myself on you
your presence
I can only feel it
when I am not completely sane
when the crack in my mind widens
letting you in
embracing you
a mouth, lips parted
to meet yours
tongues dancing
I am kissing a phantom
in love with a memory
addicted to madness
to you
enough that I will raise ghosts
delude myself
I am the necromancer
in love with her own conjuration
when the night is done
I will have had my fix
and be on my not-so-merry way.
I think unhealthy
doesn't even begin to cover it.

We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'

You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee--
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .

'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . .  For all the days hereafter
What have we saved--what news, what tune, what play?

'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,--
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
No pity dims our eyes . . .
How many others, like ourselves, this instant,
See how the great world wizens, and are wise? . . .'

Well, you are right . . .  No doubt, they fall, these seconds . . .
When suddenly all's distempered, vacuous, ugly,
And even those most like angels creep for schemes.
The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you,
Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.

But this is momentary . . . or else, enduring,
Leads you with devious eyes through mists and poisons
To horrible chaos, or suicide, or crime . . .
And all these others who at your conjuration
Grow pale, feeling the skeleton touch of time,--

Or, laughing sadly, talk of things important,
Or stare at mirrors, startled to see their faces,
Or drown in the waveless vacuum of their days,--
Suddenly, as from sleep, awake, forgetting
This nauseous dream; take up their accustomed ways,

Exhume the ghost of a joke, renew loud laughter,
Forget the moles above their sweethearts' eyebrows,
Lean to the music, rise,
And dance once more in a rose-festooned illusion
With kindness in their eyes . . .

They say (as we ourselves have said, remember)
'What wizardry this slow waltz works upon us!
And how it brings to mind forgotten things!'
They say 'How strange it is that one such evening
Can wake vague memories of so many springs!'

And so they go . . .  In a thousand crowded places,
They sit to smile and talk, or rise to ragtime,
And, for their pleasures, agree or disagree.
With secret symbols they play on secret passions.
With cunning eyes they see

The innocent word that sets remembrance trembling,
The dubious word that sets the scared heart beating . . .
The pendulum on the wall
Shakes down seconds . . .  They laugh at time, dissembling;
Or coil for a victim and do not talk at all.

Coenesthesia replicates and assimilates the pataphysical constellations that constitute the bulk of the perceptible but, because of a strained echopraxia that adheres to aleatory mathesis, the subconscious imprint of permutations of an integrated reality differ by capacities of percolation of the corporeal through the lavaderos of limit and the strain of hypertrophy or atrophy. Consciousness is like a shattered mirror that is corrugated through spatiotemporal circumjacent boundaries that constitute the psychogony of complexion rather than reflection. It is a comprehensive if beleaguered sentience that caresses the subliminal and accentuates the caprice of esemplastic tentacles that span variable gamuts that are ultimately subordinated by a celation that borrows from girouettism to create a shared approximation that circumducts around the babeldom of conclamation that is a categorical mutualism which becomes the nomothetic girdle of differential gradients of idiosyncrasy meeting the normative constraints of algedonic psychogony that deviates greatly from geotechnic optimum and even greater from geotechnic pessimum (by the necessity of dampened Brownian Motion which is defied by the congenital syntax of learned organization). And because the sum of conscience results in ecclesiarchy hobbled by impetuous purpresture of habit we can similarly conclude that the sum of consciousness is the percolation of both intrinsic valor and inane echopraxia into a contempered emancipation of the compounded breadth of learned cathexis and the depth of innate gangues that embody a flash of literacy augmented by flexible subroutines of habit that are the motatory rebhibition of sociocracy flimsy but inveterate to success and forgetful of frustraneous debacles if never in enantiodromia.
.
The concatenation of idioglossia (instinctive childlike communication; gabble) for example reflects a shared orbit of personas that share different gradients of volatility as the ludic fouter of the quintessential protoplasm is an origami of perception magnified by an inherited caprice that is the mandate for a terpsichorean but sympatric sphere of contraplex vectors of category intersected with the mutiny of syntax to abridge and simultaneously expand the protensive durative process of cohesive bricolage prone to the intuitive tenacity to absorb and then manufacture a farrago that abides by evolved awareness and churns a consequent solidarity found in definition but beyond the surmised threshold of the callow retread. I conclude, therefore, that consciousness depends on the superorganism of the macrobian and lively interaction between shared experience which centuples only if by a cultural imprint that is either hobbled by uniformity to result in a reductive certainty or a blandished flummery of the hackneyed (when collectivism is imperious draconian conformity) or an expansive tug of idiosyncrasy to sublimate in divergent imagination that is the stew of redintegrated ingenuity. Therefore consciousness began as an insular nesiote that is the primitive primogeniture of the canvass of circular dynamism but evolved into a superlative and supernal field of variable constitution that embodies both self and other but neither in totality.
I believe, therefore, consciousness began with an insular awareness incapable of anything but instinct which became the primipara for an advenient conjuration of language hobbled by the nomadic sprites of the protensive fouter with aimless lunarist siderism and eventually into an ethereal medium hypostatizing a replication that with virulent force and vehement conviction motivated fractured piecemeal dirigismes that confound boundaries of raw uniformity and ideal ipseity of the individuation of seminal rather than frustraneous ideas that collapse on algedonic ritualization. Consciousness, therefore, is both the measure of the collective weight and gravity of contraplex ideas differing their orbits but remaining reconstituted as unitary forms that achieve both sprawl and speed and simultaneously the constrained sphere of self-aware reticulation that bowdlerizes (depending on the age and capacity of intellect) the axiomatic and outmoded procedures such that what remains requires is somewhere between the conversant and the ineffable. Consciousness is more unitary than dualistic but it requires the projection of the known and the communication of the obvious to form the bulwark of the arcane and the degrees of the metemperical are actually an apagoge of academicism and acatalepsy because in good fortune we find that the reach of culture is the replication of stratified and replete originality contempered by the necessary politics of skeletonized frameworks of vulcanized but inflexible models to become the mainsail paragons of traction. Therefore consciousness is replicable and idiosyncrasy is unmistakable but the divergent imagination is intractable but rarely ever untethered to the humanity of culture rather than the mechanics of dehumanization.

Walking down the street
I often trip
Over the despondant and pathetic husks
Of Moral Invalids
It is easy to gloss over
The danger and contamination
The way these people pollute life
With delusions and manifestations
Rooted in their simple minded
Conjuration of the will of invisible men
Unfortunately the majority is swayed
Clinging desperately to
False comforts congregation brings
Interaction with them is dangerous
Even with a brush
One can catch the contagion of ill conformity
There is no method for aversion
We're continually besieged by
The Invalids

My fervent love for you inspires me to sonnet,
I love the way your heart spirit and soul loves,
You have breached my mind the day and finis eve,
The words of love and pain that I dream of,

Let me compare you to a great conjuration?
You are an accolade of fervor beatified deity,
As the Great sun heats the peaches of June,
Summertime as it beautifies the flowers that bloom,  

You ask how I love thee how can I not,  
I love the aegis the emotion shown with words,
As they bellow like copious out over your argot,
Thinking of your prolific love fills my days.

My love for you is this relish my words,
Always ode in your mind and heart,
Remember my words love whilst we're apart,
BY AG 05/02/2018 ©

On this day I rise to the astral plane and break open the void

The strange matter leaks forth from space and takes an unspeakable form

-

My portal grows so rapidly

With the power of the stars combined

Spilling forth the ancient ooze

That for eons has been confined

-

Such power above comprehension

A conjuration beyond human mind

This plague springs from the cosmos

Leaving only emptiness behind

-

The space in between dimensions

Belches out the element of old

Overtaking all terrestrial matter

So precise, unthinking, and cold

The grandeur and intensity I have felt recently has clouded my mind like a fog brushing the top of a mountain at dawn.
The romanticization of our shared aspirations and desperation has left me mesmerized and hypnotized like the effects of a magician performing a conjuration. Not meaning to sound as cliche or pretentious as I know this will, you are my idea of a vacation. What u mean by this is that, when I’m near you, I want to stay this way until the inevitable sands of time run out. But I can’t. I can’t because most of life is work and you are my relaxation. You are a cup of hot tea when the icicles reign supreme outside. One day, I will see you every day. Even then, I know I won’t want those days to end. But end they must. So we face the test of time, wearing infatuation and admiration as our weapons, fighting the clocks and schedules that trail so closely behind. We fight and we fight and we fight.

They loosed the moorings from Cala Cogone prematurely, when the tide seemed to be lifting over the separate lumps in the dews of the hailstorms, and on the head of the Cyclops distancing itself from its corporeal organism. On a lavish and romantic day, they went to Genoa, to continue with their travel logistics to Piacenza. During the displacement Etréstles was contemptuous in the prow under the Shemesh that seemed to be a fearsome specimen, before an embroidered intestinal being stirred in his own dream, perhaps more longed for than a dual itinerary. While they slept, at the helm Etréstles argued ringing dressed in his black cyclamen tunic, the comrades were also sleeping with their rhapsodic physiognomic dreams, coloring mutinous gestural jaspers, on some faded signs that were deteriorating.

A chimera of Etréstles: “His off-center memory of him ..., was still in Izzana, the capers rumbed through the pathetic clouds over the gray tulles, and the layers of the sky tried to stop being a reign emeritus for a prince without a crown. The paradisiacal layer "kyklámino stémma", was glimpsed melted in the scattered limestone Nuraxis, turning into sticky aeroliths agglutinated in the deployment of the Conjuration, laying the rye species in the jaws, and on the head of Vernarth himself. As they continued with their abstract journey, they remained to parade with the legal aid in his own mirage. He tells her that: "I see them beyond from where their ceremonies collide, they cross eroding the vanished reason of their itinerancy." They get up and take the ship's moorings and attach them to the neck. Then they all cooperate to walk along the edge of a tracontero's sooty ship, moving them all barefoot…, waking up at once! Vernarth, try to wake them up, shake them off, but they don't wake up. And when he tried to evade him from sleep, he saw that he had the ropes on his neck, along with two Unicorns who were escorting him and looking at the infinity of the uni-****** between them tied to infinity itself, supporting that Genoa was already coming in front of its antlers. The others began to wake up and ate reclined, almost without any desire to rasp the cover full of self-sliding and unctuous linen, which allowed them to pass each one their own aperitif from Apollo's head, surrounding them in their cohorts inclusively, being semi dissipated and rolling down the hatch cover. Etréstles transferred the dream to Vernarth, once he went to his bedroom to rest before they touched the roadstead. At the foot of the homonymous promontory, 36 km from Genoa; Portofino could be seen, close to some spiral planks that floated in their hydro form, with Apollo's eyes narrowed and circumscribed in the radius of his orbital process, with submerged herrings that frolicked from Apollo's zygomatic, and in the regional natural garden of Portofino. They found different entrance gates through San Rocco, Portofino Vetta, and Nozaregoino, entering with the agaves on the way with different levels of accessibility and auriferous perspective escape. The path traveled from northwest to southwest on the same promontory that was hidden, communing with all beauty the Mediterranean vegetation, with its beautiful pine forests, and bluish scrubs in the waters of the Mediterranean, filling them with itching lungs, and especially in the offshoots of the Kardiá , silencing the peaceful companions by the suggestive Natural adonis in the indigo abyssal eyes.

Vernarth wraps himself in two linen cloaks and a spárgana for Etréstles, then intervenes, eclipsing each of the Unicorns from his uni-******. They frank him with their antlers on their pectoral, loving him with the subtle hint of attachment that is born from a primal genesis. His gesture softened the expectation that crowned the Empire of his cohort, with the impetus of Arbela, and in the semi-precious Onyx Crowns in chalcedony ..., lightening the gavels of the semi-precious sleep that awakened them before reaching the shores of Genoa. The land in Genoa, all descend in separate fractions and say goodbye, distantly gesturing their signs and making retro gestures with their hands dressed in the mineral encrusted with their rapacity. The ramblings showed on multiplex-rays at the levels of a growling aura, which instigated them to the enclave's inn among the algae that levitated on the ear tags of the ducks, and of some ruminant bluish unicorns, to reinsert themselves into the world of the adjacent daily chores of the cornucopia. The ship luridly hovered in the indigo bay, where it spurred on the Unicorns that were returning back to Sardinia, positioning itself in the bow bulb and in the stern the other to lighten the sails and return to Izzana.

The Scarabaeidae sing: “The Vernarthian tenor of Kaitelka carried them behind her with another Ballenid, this one carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold teeth that turned on the backs of all the borer beetles, delimiting towards a dialectic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical, especially in the form of Vernarth's sub-mythological genre. The sacredness of the unicorns was the winner of all the dull fantasies, pretending to raise the rainbow over their senses, delegating them remnant spatiality from the growing infinity. To praise the hypothesis of this whale, she sang native arias and cephalization ultrasounds in Genova, where she continued to harmonize the media in her cranial cavity, and in the muzzles that reached the larger fins, transmitting waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth.

Image
Is
Conjuration
A
Poet

Surely, you're not still believing
That all you know is somehow real.
This grand illusion which you're seeing,
The one you hear, the one you feel,

Is just a dream's conjuration,
A wondrous scheme, a great charade!
Stuck within your imagination,
You're caught behind this grim facade.

You've known a life entirely
Fantasized by your eager mind.
There's no meaning to reality.
What's left for you to maybe find?

Continue dreaming--dream bigger!
The power always lied in you.
Don't stay bound to your earthly figure,
In this dream, who's to say what to do?

You're gifted with seemingly endless
Choices to make and all their outcomes.
How's your time considered precious?
Our perception creates such humdrum.

Nothing exists, can't you see?
Save for empty space, and you!
And you're but a mere thought freely
Roaming amidst this nothingness;
Whether or not that might seem true
Is determined by how you perceive
This spectacle we call reality!

The clever craft emerges from
intelligence, willpower. It allows
for healing, or human enhancement,
Provides a means to catalyze inspiration,
Or indeed proffers mere modes of recreation,
And of course a dark side which is unwholesome.

All the same I turn to those fabled schools of Alteration,
Of Conjuration, Destruction, Illusion,
Of Mysticism, and Restoration;
Its immanent applications

and its transcendent source:
Metaphysics. Knowledge, experience.
It is worth acknowledging recreation, playfulness.

mind boggling the difference between
conceived and reality.
how young i must’ve been
to convince myself to have a mind-altering illness
just to fit an image
just to fit in.

the dark thoughts were only conjuration
and i wasn’t depressed at all
though now i learn that the people
around you can shape who you are
and who you will become.

i aged &
didn’t know hate until
i woke up and met myself.
i slept through the days &
walked along highways.

when i was young it was easy to fake
and make a spectacle of the brain
when people thought they cared because
it was easy. i could still
laugh, and eat, and sleep normally

instead of in class isolated
depressed with a dying mind i
couldn’t comprehend why
it was easy the first time because
it was so much less complicated.

and people only like you when
you’re fabricated but as soon as
you become real the monster becomes
real it’s a conscious decision to let go
when you need all the help in the world

to not let go i was hanging on by
a thread when before it was a rope
ladder but it doesn’t matter when
you decide to make it all a noose &
hope they see you swinging

like it was always a sick spectacle.
people love depression when it’s fake
but the first night you try suicide
always ready to label as ‘bait’
and maybe i’m still not okay

but i’m over it. i understand the difference
between conceived and reality
the only lesson i learned was to hide
just to unlearn again that i can’t
listen. i thought i knew what depression was
at thirteen enough to act like it
and it mattered then more than
my actual depression.

I imagined the perfect poem
rich with rhyming in the verse
stating contents of my heart
torn from flesh to paper’s face
the words would dance on the tongue
reciting wisdom of the muse
this fount I’ll not claim as my own
flowing freely from the pen

this is the dream I chase each day
seeking heights of excellence
with the tools from the bard
implemented with sad regard
practice makes for more good
tumbled right on top of self
witness how much I struggle
mambo dogface to the banana patch

words with meaning escape my grasp
as I quote the great Steve Martin
he was a god among the mortals
describing smoking of the ***
my poor attempts to pin words down
demand attempts to try once more
on each day the sun will rise
again I’ll scribble utterance

in this space I’ll express
the full spectrum of who I am
with no fear of who may see
the good or bad with ugliness
because a life has its quirks
waiting for the poetic twist
conjuration of highest order
a perfect poem found at last.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180408.

Mephistopheles sticks out his throaty

tongue--to sample the lineaments of

an artist's brushstrokes.

his overactive salivatory glands leak

down from the finishing touch--an

artist prematurely committed.

standing in the way of what the artist

knew would become a whole other

painting--with the possibility of a

non premature finish.

the conjuration progresses--art provenance.

hanging in a place of honor, someone's

home--a matter of acquisitional record.

the very spot of their chosen wall, feng shui.

with no visiting hours imposed, the obsessive

collector is slobbered on by the barter of that

brushstroke.

so the painting is lent to a museum--where its

viewers find themselves in front of other paintings.

though viewing the same one.

by sheer force of attraction, they all end up

in front of that painting again.

as if the museum emptied out in a single

viewpoint.

brushstroke.

Last night, we made love
in the bedroom, sparkling
candlelight’s surrounding
us in every corner enveloped
in our blazing passion, his
ravishing attraction gliding
through me, a conjuration
of massive fascinations.
His star-filled lips kissing
the secret spots of my treasured
chest, tongue licking my luscious
*******, my heartbeat racing each
glorious second, as he traces the
realm of my body.  The flashing
signal lights shining within
my dynasty, slow crawling
over me, his muscled hands
grabbing my pulsating *****,
massaging my big *****,
while I moaned into the pillow.
I could feel pearly precum
oozing down my ***** hairs,
his deep voice whispering out
to me, I got you wet love.  Look
at my beautiful blossom.  And
as he pinned me down on the
sweaty bed, his horse ****
driving inside of me like
a drumbeating train,
my mouth soaked in his
tasty chemistry, sweet
nectar, every ****** emotion
and motion flowing
inside mouthwatering oceans.

Consider the following
dogmatic, enigmatic, fantastic,
idiotic, jargonistic, kimetic, linguistic,  
narcissistic, opportunistic,
poetic, quixotic, rhapsodistic,
scholastic, transformistic,
universalistic agglomeration
as an abbreviation
overactive imagination
wrought demonic manifestation

unaware reading dictionary
could engender garrison housing
Century 21 ghostly conjuration
paranormal shenanigans this
Lake Wobegon resident
grudgingly attests perturbation
disembodied spirit betook
(analogous to Casper
the friendly ghost)
"FAKE" spooky introduction

primarily cause ethereal
phantom of the opera mine
diaphanous doppelganger actualization
forcing agonizing confrontation
blindly highlighting spectacular illumination
constituting undeniable declaration,
whereby stagnant existence
aligned stark juxtaposition
courtesy faux charade, escapade, facade...,
gimcrackery literary affectation

yielded (still does) negation
to befriend prospective logophile,
essentially begetting immediate amputation
as posited a posteriori said acquisition
regarding, kneading, experiencing...
inclusiveness feeling reviled discrimination
foisted linkedin with nonestablishmentarian
progressive, liberal, agnostic Unitarian
paradigm upbringing birth parents
decreed ideal articulation

to foster independent cogitation
among yours truly, and his two sisters,
at one time felt veneration
marble lustrous bead
felt towards (guess who) second born
only brother gifted with affliction
diagnosed recent as
schizoid personality disorder,
a mental health condition,
whereat emotional affinity

toward kin folk sundered
buzzfeeding self cannibalization
predicated on inchoate
in utero causation
insync with adaptation
(actually Putin on Ritz key conspiracy
incorporating Russian collusion)
in tandem with basket of deplorables
little rock and rolling
witnesses regeneration

frothy heady windblown
dyed in wool Taj Mahal size
pompadour toupee coronation
ego freezing troll defies decapitation
barley bubbling within hopscotching
mucky swamp characterization
capital hillbilly Phoenix
resembling archeopteryx alights
shrill screeching, digging lame talons
into trumpeting paunchy underbelly.