There once was a pond off the Astrillian shore,
Where a billion clams lay underwater, they snored,
Day after day, tides change to tides,
Yet the life of a clam is still quite a bore.

Until one day an otter, all spryly and nimble,
A prince from the infamous pool down the thimble,
Crossed the old straight with his men through mud and through wimble.

Valiantly striding his conquest was simple,
Representing his people in search of a love life to kindle.
He was quirky, and boisterous, and hard to ignore,

Splashing and thrashing about the good peoples shore,
A good lookin' pup, he swam round in circles,
Converting the Astrillian Algaeans to Murkles.

The clams weren't slow to catch on to the show,
For clams are very attentive you know,
And soon by council & seminar they mouth-fulled their garbles,

"Who yonder this monkey that endlessly wharbles?"
"Are you daft kind sirs?" asks one clam as she snarbles,
"It seems you old men have lost all your marbles,

That is the otter, his highness all the way from Port Schwarble!
He only plays cowbell, throws barbells, and a million such marvels,
It's an Astrillian holiday as far as I yarble, hmm"

She stops,
It's indeed very clear she's been pinned as kalopsious,

"My dear" one clammy clam-clam firmly speaks,
"I see your 'kidz-bop' as they say has given you gleecks,
Your highness, is an otter, we'll be extinct within weeks"

The elders agree and farble on lke sheep,
"The end is near!" the little ones squeak,

But none brave as Mandy,
This little clam candy,
Would even think that moving was handy,

Why, confronting a prince sounds totally dandy,
So she pipped and she chupped,
Getting the elders all sandy.

As she made her way up to her prince, who was also quite randy.
Approaching her man of a million wonders,
She squeaked a fine hello over his rambunctious thunder.

He stopped and observed,
"What is this, hors' doeurves?"
He plucked her and licked her, obviously deterred,

When she snarbled and blushed ignoring the blunder,
"My name is Mandy the First, from the land of down under,

She smiled as he turned to his squire,
"A fine maiden to invite to the royal dinner," laughing they snired.
"I caught wind of your plans to marry" she twinkled,
"I just thought that I'd say that I'm young and I'm single,"

And with a wink she gave off her lady like signal.
The squire scoffed at the lady so simple,
"May I remind you ma'am, this is the prince from the pool down the thimble.
He's come all this way through mud and through wimble,
In search of a maiden to love and ne'er let dwindle,
Yet this peasant clam reminds me of a fire in my belly, so long ago kindled,"

He snirped, Mandy quirped as the prince caressed her dimple,
"You'll not lay your paws on her or her people,
This girl is totally braver than you and our sheeple!
It is decided that I'll be bringing her all the way to the steeple."

The squire grumbled a pox on both sides,
"You princox, we haven't eaten since Ides,
If you really cared so much for your lady,
Then let us first feast on her friends and their babies,
For what is a wedding if we're all riddled with hunger and rabies?"

"Nay squire, for you are a bigger one,
Your princoxious gluttony far exceeds the range of the Astrillian Sun"
"Ooooooooohh!!" his guards hollered and bothered, oh but he wasn't done,

"If you really care for your stomach all the sudden,
Then come at me brother, make me your wet monkey mutton.
See if I care for your metabolic process, you square,
For nothing could separate me from my princess so fair."

And so they charged and they barged and splashed all about her,
As his guards cheered them on into brotherly slaughter,
Witnessing the madness, Mandy would rather be chowder.

As she quietly wept for her hunk of an otter,
She noticed the elders behind her surface the water.
"What do you want?!" snobbing she totally snared,

The elders snooted and bitterly declared,

"We warned you," they flarbed,
"Their kind is brutish and dull," they spat from afar,
"The feud between peoples is older than tar"

Mandy flushed beet red and crying she clacked,
"Your ignorance prevails clams, for that is your only knack,
This man loves me and I love him right back,
In fact he's saving us all from becoming a snack.
And if he succeeds I'll never see you again,

I'll never work your sand-bars, or attend colleges of mermen.
I'll never sing songs or clean up your dens,
And you'll all just be grumpy old clams forever, and then,
When I am queen I will not be so mean.

I will unite all the clamsfolk with our predators keen,
We shall not be afraid and they shall not come to prey,
And who knows maybe we'll all get along someday,"

And with that, the squire cried "Uncle!"
And the prince let go of his sleeper-hold struggle,

"Now will you praise your lady you poor jester thuggle?"
"I do, I do your highness, til death I shall juggle."
And so the otters and clams conjoined the whole island,

With only some leftover haters to beguile,
And within seven days time
People gave up on fear,

Threw out their hunger,
And then it became clear,
With only time left to ponder,

As the big day came near,
At the cathedral they concluded that love lasts much longer,
That really,

Whether one be a clam or an otter,
It is only together that we shall become stronger.

On the canvas of the Sky,
As high as can see the eye,
Two figures hung: a cowbell
And a sailing boat as well.

On the canvas of the Sky,
As far as would reach the eye,
Bell on bell, boat on boat, high
They linger for a moment,

Then they all wave good-bye,
Like a choir of echoes.

(C) LazharBouazzi

Peri Kousmos became effective with the thunderous lightning and mighty deluges, huge exhalations of fire Spiritu et Igni began with all the beads from the bottom of the sea rising by the seven suns that were duplicated odd, and even on the firmament of Agios Andreas. It was three o'clock in the morning of the antipode, and a splendorous halo with seven satellites that had at their summit the tops of roosters on some resplendent rays, which covered the meridian of a Demiurge that existed erected and frozen, opened over paradise. on the Peri Kosmou or Reference of the World of metamorphosis. Spuriously the emanations of the pamphlet that began to move from its geological boundary were made where everything was silenced and bruised in the compact parts, with all the wandering parts that wanted to enter under the ***** of the islet that was becoming spiritually. The Necromancer Monograph or work was violently prostrated in the four elements of nature with the geodesy of Vernarth, towards the Mandragoron Surveying for when Vóreios slipped into Nótos when Borker and relaxed both senses, then Dyticá with the demiurge Leiak relaxed from the Equinoctial of the Aftó, to fork through the narrow spaces and finally rise in an eternal vertical, whose center was relieved of a non-bellicose admission in a tremolo that wanted to shudder and defer from an extreme like the Eplinctae that made them move obliquely, the Stymphalos came out from the meanders, then the Brastae earthquakes bubbled from the Notós de Borker when he held them on the straight that contorted on the lacerated ones, later with the observation shot of Theus when the subsidence of the ground with the Hizematiae held them evidently parapsychological. Vikentios did the logistics of bridging the lands that were opened and divided around the perimeter, Marie des Allées held them with great force the ground that naively used to quiet for ephemeral moments with the Astae earthquakes, until Wonthelimar appeared and became effective in the verticality that expanded when it sank due to its shaking with the Palmatiae, and finally Vernarth bellowed with disgusting gutturals so that they would react to the Mycetas earthquake, which was exhaled from disgusting visions of the Peri Kosmou evidencing incidental paragraphs of Apollo, which although he understood of analogous emanations that seemed to be demonic plasmas of the aldehyde in the Valley of the Pleisto close to the Phocis. The sublunar pretended to have tangible oracles through the gasifications of the original Epiclintae earthquake that moved them towards the meanders where the bronze birds awaited the precepts of the Saint to take an advance on the celestial kingdom. This implied that the nature of the Stymphalos would require the sensory stimulation of the golden cowbell of the *** to stimulate them in their gift of flight, with their heavy wings that rested at the right angle to later draw on the cavities.

The sky was beginning to disappear and in the fissures that the Dyticá de Leiak line leaned, the shores of the sea were rearranged to assist them by magnifying the supine lines with the vertical ones, within the microseisms that began to increase from the earthquake, avoiding breaking the surface who was still generously supporting them by the cross of Patras that was he bilocated with his five-meter golden cross, up to his goddaughter island with the little finger of the Apostle Andrew. From here in the surface of the earth would be ajar when cracked by the little finger of the Apostle, then he would leave in his hand a minimal piece of earth so that they could be preserved from the cataclysm, and be redeemed by the bronze birds. Only in this way was the revived earth aware of what was happening, and let it escape in the concrete stones that had evaporated from the apostle, only letting in some bursts of the Metelmi that interlaced by springs of the lusters of the sublunar cycle, which intermingled with the land and the ocean, and the fire with the scalded air. The rebellions of the Mega Seism transferred them in psychic divergences towards the Palmatiae earthquake, which recovered the edge of the pilgrims who did not manage to attend the course of the Mashiach holocaust when they were apprehended by this force of the Palmatiae earthquake on the path of Bethany. From the valley of the Pleisto the uproar effects of Golgotha were counteracted, and from Patras when the sense of the earthquake shone on Vernarth's Mycetias in the 70th Earthquakes with the reverberated waves that flared in the verb, and in the guttural lows that They freed themselves from the subsoil, when the substrates of the mother's possession forged discrepancies of order or Kousmos, having to be reissued with so much rapture and sordid frenzy of the verb that did not recognize him from the stench of the waves that rose from the creeping subsoil, like a cobra that smiled linearly through the eyes of the fire conjured by the infected, and with the disproportionate deviations of the adjective, where salvation was the correct invocation where it has not been seen in the pharynx of the cobra, which struck itself in the impetuous fierceness of the burning global balance. The Peris Kosmou or reference of the World was compared with the paragraph that the evangelizing writings indicated with the chromatic, and not with the adverb when the fiery red of the Mycetias Seismic went directly to his fetid belly with halitosis to fully protect the wounded and Marie des Vallés with the reasons for the vertical and horizontal movement of the “Brastae and Epiclintae”.

after years of being told how good my body was
i went through puberty.

after years of being asked how much time i spent at the gym
i grew hips
and disconcerting  looks from grown men who thought my fifteen year old thighs were too thick to be sexualized.

after years of wearing sundresses
and being applauded for being the first girl in my grade to grow *****
my metabolism slowed down
and i was made to feel like a cowbell in the least practical sense of the word.

i was thirteen and hunched over a porcelain toilet bowl when i told my friend i had purged and she called me gross as if it wasn't because of feeling "gross" that i was there to begin with.

and i'd grown used to my good-gened friends with their tiny waists and size 32 jeans telling me they wanted to join a gym in hopes i'd run along and lose some weight.

because when i was 13 and weighed little enough to turn heads i felt empty while looking whole.

and when you're fat you can't have an eating disorder, because illness can be seen so how good of a job my ana was doing depended solely on how faint i felt by midday.

in a world where nobody buys magazines it's easy to pretend we don't care for skinny bodies anymore, but when every smartphone is linked to an instagram page and every newsfeed is filled with "slim thick baddies" you can't help but wonder.

if i were to feel physically full why am i so empty?
i cheated myself.
she probably went and cheated on me because my body wasn't slim-thick enough to eat.

and it's easy to say this doesn't apply to me when you see the pictures on the beach but you don't see me scrolling through pinterest at 2 in the morning looking at "How To Lose 10 kgs in 3 Days" posts.

if i were so lucky i'd be a success story and could probably post before and after pictures of my body but you can not hear the ache in my belly screaming at me that it'd rather just be cut off.

when i was fourteen i could no longer wear shorts in public because grown men with wives would turn and watch my thighs clip-clap together as i walked with my dad.
i was asking for it.
i resented summer and the fact that i'd run out of clean pairs of jeans to sweat in.

but if i dare love myself, what then? do i apologise to the girlfriends of the boys who visit me for coffee? do i drink coke light with my whiskey? do i start writing poetry?

I bang my elbow in the shower,
takes a second to realize why

not that I was careless
or enjoy pain, again

but the cascara
cowbell, saxophone,

hands around my shoulders
that are not my own

sunlight squeezing lemons,
flower dress upon the hill

potato enchilada
still
digesting
messing
with my footwork

    possibly

maybe

    I was careless.

Showers are not the place for salsa.

i find nothing intelligent about philosophy,
if in were to prescribe a self-help book
i'd prescribe any philosophy book,
it would become mantra to: dumb-down.
fascinated as i am, dancing
pretending to drum, when there's
a sudden jolt and i sing hail! in the
vandal epice, i am fully intact as a
skeleton of an albatross - and stand in a shape
of ᛉ... zigfreid... jawolh...
    having spent 3 weeks in Poland,
in some obscure city gave me utter peace...
but hey, why not come back to England
and get a moral sun-tan of absolute
*******... why not dress up
  in post-colonial nuances, why not experience
post-colonialism?
         3 weeks without the internet
and i really, really did feel relief...
           i thought television is bad...
well, it is bad, if you have internet access...
but with the internet, comes the Belzeebub,
a swarm of words, of opinions that only lead
to a cul de sac of your own basis:
for not talking on a street corner, with a sign
dangling on your neck like a cowbell
reading: the end is near!
          i get it, it's a fetish, it's man claiming
the end will come when he'll obliterate gravity,
i''m cool with that, shindig and all the ponce
of an urban vocab...
   talk to me like a farmer though... please,
please, please do... i want to talk to a farmer...
i can't deal with this cool urban kids
and their microaggression and, whatever it is
they have stashed in their socks...
     because you really can't read a philosophy
book and care to be intelligent...
         i've read a few, and each time i return to
the most despotic creature i could ever wish
to be... the one that's perplexed that he
say something tangible, something worth
riddling... but nothing outside of
the arithmetic... of gluing i am dodo
therefore i'm extinct...
     try to imagine living in a country without
a colonial past... i can, i just did, spent
3 weeks in Poland, and after having acquired
English, like the good, assimmilated foreigner
i am: i want to unlearn it...
   i'm dying to unlearn it... i ****** wish i didn't
speak it...
              it's too global for me...
    i speak it, but i don't want to speak it,
but then i invested over 20 years of my life in speaking
it, and thinking in it...
       i'd also like to see little england,
the england with its camper vans and it's yorkshire
terrier... but i am currently holding
an anchor on the periphery of London,
and boy, the drag is something, i am actually
enjoying this paralysis...
but you can't expect to read a philosophy and
get the idea that suddenly there's a theory
of relativity sleeping within you...
    read a philosophy book, learn to become an idiot...
    intelligence can't even stomach awe...
it always has to say something witty,
be something opportune, have a dinner party...
fake it...
           the idiot just looks at the world
and says: huh? it really is a chance to play the Frankenstein
monster... so many people, and they have so
much care to trade, sell apples, argue...
so much care to attain the ****** appeal,
to trim their hair...
   so much energy to trade, sell life insurance,
to argue...
               where do they get it from, that mana?
it can really be so welcoming,
to experience life in a non-colonial society,
    to be bored, to do nothing and simply be human...
now that's a first...
              to do nothing and simply be, human...
   me thinks that animals have it easy,
i wish i could have the digestive system of a koala
bear...
                to be a creature with a mono-facet
adaptability dynamic... well, a bi-facet adaptation
scenario... me, coordinates (0, 0), the thing
i want, coordinates (1, 1)... move!
     not me, i'm human, i have to go to the *******
cinema, i have to attend a funeral,
i have to do a, b, c, and all the way down through to z...
    evolution is cruel...
               this constant physical bombardment
with sensual teasing, and then being ****** anally by
some cognitive fudge phalllus...
    it's really become obsolete to even think,
there's no: think for the pleasure of mere thought...
now i'm waiting for a shepherd to
huddle me into a crowd in need of writing a book...
i really don't know how the natives
  deal with this, but if i were to suddenly speak my
native tongue i'd be better off, english is really
being stretched, so many bad, i mean really bad
accents... they only speak the english they speak
because english is a barren wasteland without any
diacritical marks... it's covert language,
puny secretive bollocking at the start,
and nothing else at the end...
    but it really is a headache knowing english
these days... it's doing my head in...
          i speak english and i'm already imaging
myself head-banging, or knocking down
the al-buraq - if you know Polish then you'll
just say: the beetroot.
                       and whatever the media tells you,
everyone in the trenches of society
actually adores Putin...
             it could be sad, but at least it's not so
flimsy and artsy after all...
   a society with clear indication that internet
megalomania is not permitted...
                  yes, i really am writing you a postcard
with a: wish you would go there...
     even with its Christian conservatism...
      it's actually bearable...
becuase, having 3 weeks there, and as i get older
(even though i'm only 30)...
  i find England: exhausting... literally
like dragging elephant testicles wherever i walk...
it's exhausting... England is exhausting...
   talking English is exhausting...
     this beacon of hope and freedom has become
a **** nugget, set alight on a toothpick...
     i've lived in England for so many years,
and have yet to taste the local delicacy... of an English
******... while a story emerges in Rotherham
about a ******* cartel... it begins to really break
your heart... there's you, ***-starved and
having the tendency to over-exaggerate a handshake
and there's the world...
     you can't really drink enough alcohol these days
to knock yourself out...
and i've been drinking, on and on, on and on... and on...
and it never stops being so depressing!
     there, my tongue is lose... it's a streaker on a
football pitch... running wild... giving it all
for the worth of simply: frenzy...
             but there's something very ancient about this
dynamic... the fact that these are the lands
once occupied by the romans...
sure, in Poland you use the Latin alphabet, but
the spaghetti maneli crew never threw their
pizza that far up north...
                          go to any country that doesn't
boast of a Roman heritage...
that's for starters...
                         if the place boasts about being
conquered by the romans...
                  you end up watching a funeral that
just won't go away... not how the latin alphabet
was best symbiotic with numbers due to the holes
and you can't code on a computer screen
with anything, but latin... try writing an app.
using arabic or hebrew...
it truly is a language based on: matchsticks made
in heaven...
                 just the areas where the romans didn't
settle... the "uncivilised" regions...
    it's enough that the Slavs probably had the equivalent
of runes... and a polytheism of some sort...
but all i see is: perfected exploitation of the latin
alphabet, and well, might as well forget the rest.
    now that's major digression...
      it's as if i'm trying to have a conversation,
  but then the claustrophobic tendency of narration
take off and i''m thrown into a Tartar army...
       entranced into singing allah'u akbar... instead
of reciting Rumi...
                    it is what it is,
and since England is a major player in world
affairs, there's nothing little about it, even
if you live in Dover...
                 yet there is a nation-state serenity somewhere,
where everything is truly small,
  truly content with very little, where it's not
gagging to advertise itself, to sell itself...
    perhaps Auschwitz is a blessing as a "tourist"
destination after all...
           come to think of it... people will be children
around the pyramids...
they'll climb a pyramid... make funny photographs
of the pyramids what afar, as if they were holding
it... can't see any funny photographs coming
from Auschwitz... people gearing up to
smoke a shisha in a gas chamber...
                       or climbing into one of the crematorium
ovens to replicate a Tokyo hotel "room",
maybe Auschwitz is the blessed deterent of globalisation?
it's a great question...
           while the Czechs import hen and stag parties
to their capital with cheep beer...
  no one from the west seems to feel the same
drunken bliss in Krakow... what with Auschwitz
so close...
               they'd rather drink with the Russian
separatists in Kiev!
                  and indeed, what the German rage left,
i wear it like a black diamond...
              a crow's croak...
so, does that mean i have to appeal to some
imaginative conquered-party appeal?
   that i let it all happen, while i pressed the snooze
button on my clock?
     i don't know... Poland is a bit odd, and coming
from there, it almost seems that i should be writing
about Moldavia.
              and blessed are those: firmly rooted in one
place, with neither care nor obligation
   to travel far...
                          lest they bring nothing but
scurvy, in hope of bringing the beacon of civilisation
  and only that, no olympic flame: but a plague.
England is a land of displaced people,
  and can't be anything other than:
i got ants in my pants and i'm going to sing the blues!

writing beats and rhymes
at the same time
theyre both the same
in my eyes
always looking for the pattern
like a frame
to hang the words upon
or to surround them
in percussion
every word has place in time
replacing bass with lines
a scribe to my racing mind
the rhymes hi hat rise punctuating
the punching reverberating bass drum
kicking your brain in

The grass is so green
Down in the meadow
Beside the glistening stream

A cowbell rings
Tolling for lovers
Beside the sparkling water.

Our fingers touch and
A shock jolts our bodies
As we tremble with passion.

The air is hot and still.
Nature's sounds are magnified
As we reach for each other.

Fumbling with our clothes
We caress one another
With hot lips and sweet kisses.

The fragrance of crushed grass
Mingles with the scent of wild roses
As the sun heats our  naked flesh.

Lying together on our blanket,
We make love with an urgency
That takes our breath away.

Afterwards, we lay side by side,
Holding hands, touching
And whispering our love.

That romantic summer's day,
Filled with joy and delight,
And so many years ago.

Illuminated by a dream.
Drawings on the wall
Writings on your back
Hiding away in abstract thought.
Pastel colors and vintage photographs and Levi Jeans ads.
Dusty records on the floor of your room with the slanted walls
Hibernating on the roof
Looking over the city
Like the hero of Gotham
See the world through someone else’s eyes.
See the way you live.
Merge. Connection.
Binnocularing into the future.
Bird watching peeping tomming.
Conjoining what’s real and what is just what it seems.
Edgar, it is just a dream.
Earth, Moon and global Pangaea.
The world is my canvas and now so are you.
Why do you look at me like that?
You make me want to write.
I can’t stop looking at you too.
You have rendered me useless
All I’m focused on is those blue eyes
Staring so intently at me
Fixated on me and only me
Hey, I’m talking to you,
Cowbell tamboureen percussion section cowboy.
You burn with a fire from the sun.

your paradise is giving me hell... yet -
we bark at the same moon
and all's well. we strike the brass bells of our Wednesday
and keep havoc on a leash. drinking mint tea... pealing anguish
from a flask... stalking clarity with a cowbell -
spoiling ribbons of the sun
with night streaks of blind lemons
coiling in the blue sky of dread reckoning... a periscope
in the marsh, festooned with limp reeds and wild things...
my eyes clunk in the Mcguffin
and go the way of Eastern men with rope tricks
it clicks on the steam in my kettle
where harm has a hammock.
and a gentle breeze typhoons
in a fools mouth.

as the whirligigs of Autumn
preach Spring

in Amsterdam.

i'm left out.

Sometimes you just need a whole lot more of a little bit of cowbell,
ya feel me?

I saw Satan fall, vicarious and all, y'know
the storyteller, said
lend me your ears

should you chose to lend to a king on a verbal agreement that
the king repay the loan on demand
"ask and ye shall receive"
but you,
got nada t' lend,
best intendere covers only one bubble,
my ownliest one.
--- here, watch, see reality stretch
--- intendere stretch
--- seventh inning, whose at bat , but you,

ad lib ad hoc you are Casey...

and there, the story ended, I told it, oh so well

born in the po' house, had a cowbell for a toy,
sing me some ain't got no money blues

If i reckon I need money fo' me some ol' new shoes
if I reckon I need money I be be be leaven one set o' footprints
in yo' sand.

come turn that backgound buzz down low,
fall wit' me t'see the show

I saw Satan fall, vicarious and all, y'know,
like lightening black,
after flash,

in a movie, HD, 3 inches from my left eye,
my right eye never saw.

old time ******* could not imagine
the level of segregation
at the corpus colostrum epi-phun-junction

that can be employed to prevent the left
hand from being judged by the right,

for lack of knowing. Eh? Who imagined ignorance
was less bliss than this

peace past standing under all the liefy remnants
from trys
past trys, some same as now,

some how

better
with you aware of you being so valuable,

one part in eight billion, pure you, like,
tried, in the finer's fire,
seven times - in ever
there has never been
a snowflake more unique than you.

(snowflake recrudesence, there's a rub)

Tell me why would you imagine meaning
hidden in snowflake, the word?
is there a nibbler from society a-tempting you?

Come and see. Does that tempt you?

The hospitality of Agios Andreas had Theus and Vikentios defined to be with her, to have total compassion with the Saint and to recover their ancestors with a focus of energy that were invaded by hyper healings similar to an ultrasound, which emanated from the hands of the Santa, for each of the individuals who remained to be definitively healed and then redistribute them in the new spheres of execrations, which hung from the indigenous Manes on the island, which delimited the improvement of many human beings who lived long periods here, overcoming dimorphisms in the reproductive organs of ancient cavemen, with leprosy in the ***** of their ******, but the testimony of dimorphism motor skills will lead to species totally free of this scourge of the ***** bacillus, to perfectly synchronize a field of healing energy, from the magical thought of the Saint who assisted them permanently, to prepare themselves in the new regions before they had what to make the last decision to integrate in Patmos. The membranes of the nuclei of the sun that healed them and reconvened themselves from the molecules of an energized level of matter celestially congruent, with the sensitivity of the affected organs, until some cells imprisoned in the cells of lost morbidity, hypnosis was reinstituted bilocate de Vernarth who assisted them from his eclectic Portal before superior hypnosis that led them to mutate their bodies into astonishing birds, which were retransformed with the Birds of the Stymphalus.

Being Aves Sanatoris with their bronze beaks and an intact body of this precious metal, from which their excrements would heal them of their leprous morbidities, and would free them from warts that were useless, in this way the King of Arcadia would make them the spell of turning all the remaining morbid bodies, turned into birds with great alloy metal wings and gold metal hoof, to reach the destination of Patmos. From this time on, Vernarth's parapsychology rang a golden cowbell with this hoof so that Athena will provide them with the gift of the righteous forever to be free from a past and subsequent cast in Spinalonga, also freeing the Apsidas Manes so that the sound of the cowbell readied himself on the wings to take flight towards the meridian of the Megaron, which was already dividing the entire world. Much of the apocryphal birds of the Stymphalus would be slaughtered by sagitta meteorites sent by Zefian, and then taken to the lush forests of Artemis, saving a few.

Agios Andreas was shaken near the island Signs, ibidem that Tsambika and Patmos, has fortifications similar to that of Spinalonga, to give protection to the lacerated guests and also in the exclusive of a Mycenaean civilization that had developed in the pre-Hellenic period of the Helladic recent, that is; at the end of the Bronze Age, between 1600-1200 BC. It was through this pabulum that the Stymphous Birds reinforced their wings and wingspan of a fabulous animal to transship Agios Andreas' lacerated ones since they had already been warned of the end of the era, and of the subsequent mega-earthquake, which would make the zone a fatal summary since the geometric period was conceived in these islands of the Cyclades. The same new inhabitants were witnesses of the decorations on this island, demonstrating the figures that encouraged them to follow animals such as the Birds, which were quickly preparing to preserve themselves from the sooty varnish, generated by the Horror Vacui of the lacerated, and regenerating some areas of the epidermis of his arms, all due to the intervention of Santa Marie des Vallées.

Adjacent to this process they settled in the Vernarth Rhema Wash which had given them the sacred essences of the Píxides grocer, Marie represented them on the steeds with the euphemisms of being a vessel that now spent the night birds on the island, with fabulous characteristics while They were deposited in the meanders of Agios Andreas, next to the borders that stretched several meters from the rooms, with backgrounds in the oceanic blue sky towards grooves or triglyphs that were projected in the sand by Vernarth's media parapsychologies. Some images even showed these chimerical birds grasping from their backs cervids, horses, and other animals, in front of daces of the pre-Helladic past. Vernarth also projected him the In Antis del Megaron that was being built, for more than four hundred years from the Dark Ages, after the Mycenaean collapse, until the archaic period, until the dawn of the pre-Helladic that Vernarth contemplated with the cessation of bronze, to gather the Stymphous Birds so that they could self-infer hypnosis traces for the agreements of their dating and biofeedback. Everything seemed a Cartesian tribulation or tripartition, among the objects of a disturbing thought. It will be a natural perception of his multifaceted school, giving us a representational system of the mind and its taxation that will reign in the lacerated of Spinalonga as true warriors of all homeostatic changes, given in the terminal periods of their morbidity, to adapt and survive the changes of the ideas of the maturity of the psychic time of Vernarth, founding a great psychosomatic plot for those who were preparing to move into the depression of Profitis Ilias.

Black clouds circumnavigate the pine forest , trees cull their mouths for Summer rains ! Black crows banter in the welcome cool breeze ,  Bessie's cowbell clangs at the molasses lick ! Pie pans glide across the hayfield , scarecrow comes alive , looks right then left ! Nanny goat calls her kids to the pole barn , head rooster crows , brings the hens to order !

onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.*

after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
   in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
    to be read, esp. by me,
    so it seems i'm looking for
    an orator; a bit like chopin
    looking for a pianist
    to play the silencer notes
    of scores, written in the realm
    of chaos of surd musical notation,
    gangrene on the page;
    readily amputated,
    i never write to speak it,
    i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
    for me - sounds cruel,
    but i guess kindness comes at a price.
    he's just a pianist and gets to be called
    an artist - let' just say he's a learned
    decipherer of scores...
    london was built on grime & grit...
    liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
    my heart was left in scotland...
    i never write for oration -
    i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
    of the old college (of law).
    honestly, the thinking of musical composers
    always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
    of near-to-miss theological theory of
    predestination working in them,
    the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
    or a cello, decipher it and note it down
    in the universal language of music,
    forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
    of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
    i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
    and i am unabashed by it...
    my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
    i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
    the parameters of punctuation...
    i'm not jealous of prose writers,
    they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
    they define the longevity of the **** thing,
    i possess power over yawns and impromptus
    of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.

Long walks under the sun.
Tender brains in unsure men,
A breeze caresses the pines
A rocky ocean shore below
Nothing to do,
Just somewhere to go.

Red shirts, marihuana, alcohol.
Friendship and love
Blossoming through time,
Piercing
The blue sky dressed above
By some superintendent devil's.
For these memories
Act like drugs
On my depressed brain now.

It was long ago,
Yet I'm still here.
That church eating away the
Sunlight, had a christ with no legs
Three years later I understand.
Memories are echos,
We hear them clear
We know deep inside what we
Want to hear
But the shore gets higher
And longer and wide
The sound is now a Cowbell, or a stain,
A dead mouse and
her dry dead remains,
A footstep in sand that left
before I said it could.

Which sunk into the sea,
before I wished it should.

What are we left with
When we feel regret?
I feel
like I've let something go,
Somehow, and what?
How can I know

So I linger here
On my empty bed,
Without any happiness
And blood in my head
Those red shirts popping
everywhere I feel
I am abandonned
Buried away
I shouldn't shouldn't have hurried
I should have stayed.

Yet it's all over,
Those men are gone.
They're out on the ocean
Singing new songs.

When satan is nye
Wild wheat is ****
Human is animal
Friendship is seed

Cloaked in black velvet and silver adorned skull peices. A halo of anxiety sits over my head. The intrusive pornographic thoughts rumble like holograms in front of my minds eye. Iris's and lillys. Dandelions and sunflowers. I want to stick my fingers in all the flowers and taste their pollen on my lips. Fantasia salivation elicted with cowbell bass drops. *** sells in seconds, lust in hours, love in years

Feeling  like a ****** journalist. Her green.hair, another with straight bangs. A septum and ****** peircing peirce me straight through the heart. Its vanity but its a start.
Let me wrap you in eagle feathers and wolf fur. Let me exercise your cowskull traumas, raging buffalo hormones into rebirth
Huff and blow moaned words into ear canals as I enter your eternal.
Infernal like the lusts of hell
Ethanol and bossom busts sell in seconds, Lost in hours with love to fear.
Gold halo of Anxiety paired with a silver skull clad in black velvet
Thrusts of the pelvic
Release whats held in
Redesigned pulpit seldom held words in
Align with me the divinity felt in
*** (in)finite feelings that last in transnce. Slowly peeling away strips of skin to permanance.
Feeling an earnest sense of wonderment. No time to wonder what it meant when impermance is permanent

Smoke cigarettes for the hurt when life has turned to **** but you heard it when i said i love you and you turned a bit. Looked in my eyes and i caught a glimpse of a future id like to witness. Didnt hear a word you said but i saw the world in your eyes instead. Tried to listen but my brain went dead
No words to say when you glow infared. Hotter than the spectrum
of sight. Glowing infared,
Youre hotter than spectrums of light so burn me like Arizona sunlight
Slap ***, hand shaped sunburn from a liquid honey night. *** on lap, lap up the *** like the last watersource, pour it on my face until gasps of air you hear. Taste your pollen near my lips nectarine fallen on your chest.

Feel the lasting affects
Of sexs' (in)finitely affixed fixation on transience. Glowing infared and ambient. Flowing energy in the pits of sacral chakras, returned to the crown and passed back down. Circulating intuitive lessons, divine bits of each other imbued in fission, fuse them into   living. Seperated by the gods as two seperate beings, unite mind, body, soul
Freeing all in estatic feeling.
Peeling all the tragic sealed in
Two seperate beings fleeing
Into impermanance
Towards a permanent form of seeing
3-4-5
666 eyes healing

i may be a catholic apostate who did not
take too lightly in being confirmed,
and even though i studied chemistry to a degree
level, i find a welcome break,
an armchair metaphor in studying
esoteric materials, because they simply bring
that kind of comfort, and a complete
lack of rigour that allows so much to shine
through...

like my discovery of the sign of the cross
in the Sefirot...
        again, i have to stress that i have
a fetish for the Deutschezunge and Hebrew
in theology, for i could never fall to my knees
before the one most despised by the Jews,
how could i?
          i required Hebrew literature,
and may i add: the study of kabbalah has
proven to be, after all the trials,
a very scientific endeavour into
the mechanisation of language...
        trans-linguistic is would appear...
i simply can't return to the mundane world
of either prayer or mantra...
     that's below me, plus it erodes the memory,
with its rubrics of said words
unnecessarily recited...
  forgive me, but it's one thing to
remember the necessary words
only when something is conjured and appears,
and another to conjure nothing
more than a missing poetic cannibalism...
which christianity invokes:
poetic cannibalism...
             sorry, no, the bread is stale and
the wine has been watered down,
you drink my blut -
              fermentation of rye and barley
and wheat... have a sucker pouch for
a glass of whiskey...
                  bread?
      swallow some lead pebbles...
                       i can't deal with this *******
lightly, i tread along this route with shackles
clinging, swaying, breaking silence upon
silence within silence that's an enigma...
              
but i found something of interest,
  the sign of the cross in the supposed
"tree of death"...
                  for i have nothing left in me
than the admiration of a Hebrew...
       or as i like to call them: the Hebraï...
      i.e. not the indian raj,
          but the mingling of ray with ri-fe,
    the former bit of the puzzle...
             i wish i could return, sometimes,
but most of the time i'm unabashed
in not fathoming if not merely forming an
apology...
  there truly are greater reasons beyond
the catholic church's ******* priest...
           just today three pubescent girls walked
up to me in the deathly hollow of
the night and asked for direction...
  just doll like features, barely 13...
          porcelain in moonlight from the fat
on their cheeks glistening and bouncing off them...
i merely replied: for the love of god
i do not know the street you're trying
to find... Waverley Avenue?!
   i know of Waverley St., but it's up in
Edinburgh! with that touristy greeting
of a scot in proper attire playing the bags!
anyway... back to the "primitive"
concerns...

              | in the name |
                         keter
                  ehyeh asher ehyeh

    | of the son |
               tiferet
           beauty, YHWH,

       because wasn't it beautiful?
look how much beauty arose from
the crucifixion, am i not right?
  the son is always depicted as beautiful,
esp. under the powers of
      torturous event, esp. then...

  | and the father |

binah, gevurah, hod vs.
       chokhmah, chesed, netzach...

   oh, wait... ****!
it would appear that i'm the sort of person
unashamed of showing mistakes,
or to put it "mildly": glorifying them in being
included,
   for the only end-product is one filled
with imperfections...
         after all, the prime philosophical
narrative drive is: inconsistency,
albeit inconsistency visible,
not the end-product, polished version...
i simply remembered a wrong
version of the trinitarian formula...

once again, maestro, hit me!

and it will spread to the north
                             first,
then to the west,
then to the east,
and last: unto the south bound
      (the geography of the trinitarian
formula).

being an apostate at least i got
the beginning correct:

              | in the name |
                         keter
                  ehyeh asher ehyeh

  | of the father |
     there ought to be a dispute
given the crown of myrrh...
   irony serves god best,
namely? what king serve a kingdom
sanely with such an object,
what is a crucifix compared to a throne?
hence?
      the father is the foundation
      (yesod)
  rather than the kingship (malkhut) -
that's one for riddling the zealots
and teaching liberalism...
         the heart of the father teaches
a foundation,
since, as the common saying goes:
the woman wears the trousers.

  | and of the son |
this is where it becomes complicated...
was it really the son's
final statement to express love (chesed)?
what sort of person admires a self-imposed
masochism?
               there are two rubrics at work
here...
  binah                            chokhmah
   (understanding)           (wisdom)
gevurah                    &       chesed
(strength)                               (love)
hod                                     netzach
(splendour)                          (victory)

| and the holy spirit |
   what is singular in transmission,
and what allows a collectivism of
these six traits?
        not understand,
       not splendour, not love, not wisdom,
perhaps strength,
  but surely a vision of victory...

| in the name of the son |
who is the son, when characterised the most
with said attributes?

tiferet (beauty) abides by the world,
and is, the world.

           | amen |
            malkhut,
               kingship!
finally! the relation of the crown
to the kingship via but a single word.

| and of the son |
or perhaps it is that citation upon
the cross: my father's house will be a house
of prayer: that self-assurance of victory
(netzach)... which could only revel in

   | and of the holy ghost |
   as being both gevurah & hod
(strength & splendour) respectivelym
what with the strength of an enduring religion,
and the opulence of the churches
bleeding ornament gold...
marble... silver...
  
yet the reason why the son clashes with
the holy ghost is because:
the father is unrelated in the concept
of a trinity, for so much of him belong
to the Jew, and not the slandered Gentile,
as the Gentile was slandered by the mouth
of the son...
                  
      at least the "father" is clearly related
to the following Sefirot dynamic:

     keter (crown) = malkhut (kingship) /
yesod (foundation) = tiferet (beauty)

the "son" is paralysed from this dynamic,
there's not beauty in a crucifix,
even if gilded in gold...
                    or managed by marble sculpture
macabre of the penitent madonna..
          
already the crown, the crown of myrrh
is a bad joke, the throne a hanging instrument
a torture another, bad joke,
     there is no foundation in that image,
the foundation is more scientific,
  a droplet of saliva on some glucose,
for example...
    and the beauty?
              how about exchanging two gorgeous
torture symbols to cowbell dangle
iron maidens?!

  i have the luxury of studying religious texts,
since i paid my allegiance to studying
science to the age of 21...
       i have this luxury,
              i did the science,
but now i have to attempt the ultimate
humanism: a study of religion...
but given the times:
                it's hardly nonsensical
to attempt such a feat.

You Made Me Go Through All These Experiences Just So I Could Write About It? (too long)
or
TISFU (that is so ****** up)
Or
Next!
Or
L’enfer c’est les autres
Or
I Hate Strangers!
Or
Street Corner Conundrum
or
Is that Approaching Drunken Psychotic ******* Yelling At Me?
Or
You say Zombie...I say Zombie Works
Or
I’m Happy **** It! 🤗
Or
You Sugared? The Peas?
Or
Does He Have Balance Problems or Has He Been Body-Snatched?
Or
Digital or Analog?
Or
Get Your **** Outta My Face
Or
A Rose By Any Other Name
Or
Extreme Peripheral
Or
Is That a Cowbell?
Or
You Said That The Lord, Jesus Christ Wants To Mug Me?
Or
Winter’s Coming
Or
Do It For Less
Or
Yes My Legs Are Great!
Or
My Friend Says That People ****!
Or
******* Rabbithole
Or
RabbitAss Hole Hole
Or
Dingbat!
Or
God the Couture Warned Me!

Gray day rooster
Alert and noble
Perched on a chestnut
Calling his flock to order ...

                                                            ­                                                       Ramblin' ole mule , braying in -
the briars
Grazing in the smoke of the -
new morning fire ...

Curious Mister Billy , tromping through the fodder
His cowbell echoes in the dew kissed holler* ...

I clean wounds with animal spit
so I inherit a lust to escape
human capture. But what happens is
I take in their power of blind loyalty
and approach the incarcerator wielding
the softest gun. I fall for boys
who teach me how to mend my
anomalies, and when I'm renewed,
they find I'm not damaged enough
to keep fixing. So I'm free but I miss
prison. I miss following the cowbell
that leads me home. I forget the past
it took to crumble me. My own shadow
haunts me when I step into the light.
So I hide in dark places to keep him out of sight.

i will never not associate the bicycle
with my grandfather
and those many summers:
many a summers ago
when i'd go back to the "old country"
and spend the summers there...
mostly... fishing... cycling...
reading books...
etc. etc.

acronym... what's u.a.s.c.?
   i know how prepositions shouldn't
be involved in acronym building
so i left one out...
since there's only one: of...

unconscious arithmetic
<of> spatial coordination...
it's the "word salad" approximate of what
i feel when i aggressively cycle
through urban traffic...
as much as country roads are worth
the otherwise mundane perspective flatness
of Roding Valley: from the teasing
of the A406 through to the sq. mile....

up-hill is interesting not because it is:
a generic interest...
it's interesting because
i poker my mind...
and wonder... will i give up somewhere
along the climb?
plus... hills imply: off-loads...
off-load periods where there's no
peddling involved and you swoon down
a hill in some aerodynamic fashion...

it's not like riding a horse...
because... well... with a horse there's this
whole: "symbiosis" spectacle...
but... the horse has gravity covered...
you're attached to the legs and torso
and there's only the head to fiddle with...
but at a gallop?
in this sort of symbiosis?
what's a pumpernickel to a ******* windmill?

cars are too stable...
the gravity is punch is too centred that it's
practically non-existent...
and having been in a car crash before...
that probably the only thrill...
loco-motion: crazy when everything
has to be compared to walking...
dare i say: i abhor running...

if loco-motion isn't etymologically
rooted in the spanish word: loco...
and... i will not deal with the origins of motion
then it is: crazy speed...
no?

but it's not like i'm a bicycle doing math
in my head... unconscious arithmetic is
not a prefix to the compound of the phrase
(in acronym): u.a.s.c.:
unconscious arithmetic of spatial coordination...
but when any sports is involved...
a soccer pass... a hockey flick:
it's "thinking" the unthinkable...
because there clearly isn't any thinking involved...
not by the Cartesian res cogitans standards...

how would automation and
all the sporting "clarifications" fit into
the res extensa: i can only think of writing:
when having res cogitans as genesis...

obviously i had to come up with...
my own... res vanus: the empty thing...

it's just so: i tak to jest:
zapierdala litera po literze...
he's ******* around with one letter at a time...
notice how some of these words
have pronoun inclusion parameters...
i.e. if i were to say he drank...
i'd say:                 pił...
if i were to say she drank...
i'd say:            piła...
although piła is somehow synonymous with
saw: literally: war-saw...
not: i see, i saw...
that would also invite a pronoun
to an otherwise pronoun-free word: (to) see
widzieć...
i.e. he saw:               (on) widział
i.e. she saw:               (ona) widziała...
the brackets are optional...

- you can go through a whole book of Prus
and maybe spot the pronoun JA once... twice...
but in english? it's almost unavoidable:
always with the *******: i i i i, aye, i, i, i...

- perhaps Nietzsche can be cited as "saying"
something along the lines of...
'all the best thoughts come when one is walking...'
i once carried a notepad like...
like that kangaroo pouch of mine...
settling for the night's parade of stars
usually settling with some strong
lager and some citric acid sprinkle in
a churchyard of a graveyard...

- the great aspect of cycling is that no
"real" thought: comes to mind...
all the concerns for moral oughts:
ploughing the concern for traffic
comes primo...

minor incident at the local library...
picking up recycling bags...
the very unforthcoming librarian
consumed by a "conference"...
knock-knock... who's there?
cycle round and speaking through glass...
if i'd like a confrontation over
a surgical mask...
no... the expectation of being english
rubbed off on me in ways
that i utilise my own interpretation
of "it"...
the old lady imploring next to me
was scolded by the librarian...
why they won't leave the bags outside...
because some ethnic pauper story decided
to gobble a stash of 'em oranges for not
good reason while me and her only wanted
two bundles...

how i refrained myself from ushering in:
*******....
                       busy-bodies...
a life that screams:
why wasn't i born rich... instead, happy?
what will the busy-bodies do when all
these restrictions are fall-out boo boo?

that i did cycle past a gavin mcinnes doppelganger
up to collier row mount is no excuse:
but how often can someone mistake a doppelganger
for someone famous?
probably often... i was once stopped
in the street being some supposed Richard...

kinks - living on a thin line...
it has a nice "twang" to it...
like nazareth's hair of a dog has a "nice"
cowbell: broom-broom...

unconscious arithmetic (of) spatial coordination...
Leibniz was also a librarian...
i could be a road-sweeper...
i'd apply myself to the duties of the body...
but then make a quick-exit with my brainzzzzz...

- i could have been a father...
but then i did just perform self-genocide on
a mia khalifa clip and i'm filled with: (a) swell(-ing)...

levellers - carry me...
anything to drag me awaay from norse
mythology and tongue-in-tow...
from anything superior germanic...
i was close to scribbling a doodle
on the window-panes: hyper-glass...

of the isles: the celtic "jingle":
it's not that morose Scandinavian loop of
artefacts "leftover"...
but it's truer than towing-twos...

you can't expect a footballer to make
a cross via "thinking"...
what narrative of moral ought i:
ought i not congests the ******* custard?
unconscious arithmetic of spatial coordination:
is verbiage: i know...
but what else do you call it...
a cyclist feeling comfortable
when a truck passes him by...
a ******* walrus too...

        i like working my way around objects
that might **** me... it leaves me with
a sense of respect... for the time when i might use
them to pass a roundabout...
****'s sake...
looking over one's shoulder
igniting the "normie" manufacture of
indicator concerning a choice of direction...

- i re(a)d too much of Heidegger...
i read too little, esp. the newspapers and
within such confines?
who's fudge packaging the proper sort of goods?
i'm blind-rage-drunk from time to time:
here we are... lingua franca bullshitting...

that there was somehow an empire:
insomniac...
the sun so clearly borne:
that the moon started pulling clown faces...
and now... reducing assets to something prior
to... before the Angevins?

Phillip Augustus... primo... source...
why wouldn't i start to feel
disgust for the mythological blonde...
i'm more in favour of arab spring...
concoctions wtih Aztec...
basically i'd **** anything that wriggles...
savvy?
i'm so tired of feeling:
beside this square: squat... solo...
i can marry bride death:
legally... via the jurisprudence of
a Belgium... i can marry death without
having to execute  (a) terrorist plough...

- by drinking i'm numbing  my senses...
i'm also numbing the excavation projects...
tow-two-tying....
but it's a lot more interesting to grovel
onto a hill with a heaving:
when will my mind... "give up"...

grieving: ***: the stirrup...
it's not like a ******* pizza-esque
"reinvention"...
wankers Tod of Milan:
spaghetti fiddlers...
by some... the best hoard of 'em.

More, more, more . . .
     How do like it, how do you like it?
                               70's Disco Song

That KC Sunshine cowbell;
That True Connection from Andrea;
That hollow knock
On America's coked-up disco skull
In the summer of seventy-six:

Who’s there . . . ?

When Earth shuts her pretty blue eyes-
When a flock of geese are heard in the twilight sky
Listen for the night owl , the meadowlark & the-
early morning wren ...
The katydid , the fiddling cricket & the mother hen ..
The clang of the cowbell , pirouetting aromatic field smoke
The foggy holler , a ****** in the tall oaks
The song of her residents , hilltops bedecked in shimmering sunny gold ...
Servile beast of burden master the tug of the yoke ..
The February wind , the three tones of a winters dirge howling like -the faithful in a Pentecostal church ..

Yours truly issuing a deafening rebel yell
bursting forth with such might
courtesy cooking under pressure
analogous to volcanic upswell,
forcing me quickly to flap vestigial wings
(at the speed of sound)
while simultaneously karaoking William Tell

overture apple lied courtesy top of the line
supra-aural ('over the ear') headphones
since altruistic anonymous
philanthropist gifted me
I bought the most expensive,
which enveloped me
analogous to pumpkin shell

essentially vacuum or void created
hands free contraption
settled, and kick/jump started,
and bathed noggin
silencing external cacophony,
whereby virtual realm didst quell
chaos assaulting, bombarding,

and enfilading sixty
plus shades of gray matter
like bats out of hell
swarming infidel locked alone in his cell,
who notified beefy warden,
he (the prisoner) wanted sustenance
by wantonly ringing a cowbell.

Out of wedlock philanderer
condemned did breed
tasting verboten fruits thee did buzzfeed,
when clear as water requisite
Nicene dance creed
deemed out of compliance
heinous née violation
in sum re: siring offspring
necessitates extreme unction
viz hits fallen into utter adulterer disgrace

before pledging one's troth
analogous to insubordination
thus life sentence decreed
blithely humming along
riding ******* (qua absent prophylactics
during heat of the moment) abomination
begetting children deprived; freed
spermatophytes liquidated
courtesy ***** goat ****
before sanctified nuptial coda agreed
registers as fate worse

than hearing one's death knell
from deep within the bowels of Earth,
yet now I play the devil's advocate,
and claim what more precious miracle than
experiencing (namely participating)
planting seeds of life within womb
allowing, enabling, and providing
deliberate propagation ideally
of healthy human species
warranting ******* when ovulation
most favorable to fertilization.

Rumspringa extant within/
without Amish youth world wide
impossible mission despite
scriptural strictures rightly stride
to put a lid on libidinal drive
analogous to holding back the tide viz
celibacy as restraint against
pang of **** ought best be granted liberty,
an emerging truth nationwide
a state of concupiscent nature
whether hetero or homosexual
one beast of burden an adolescent
ought not be forced to hide
similar to severe imposition of apartheid.

Once union of two
sexually latent human beings
looses gametes, which
unsurprisingly yield zygote
when without absolute zero
doubt pregnancy occurs
gravid state cannot be
shrugged off nor ignored.

No matter whether precocious post pubescents,
or legally aged coupled partners
salient proactive investment measures wise
such as ultrasound signaling healthy gestation
validation of impending motherhood
constituting testing blood for hCG results
in earliest detection of pregnancy
subsequently witnessing barenaked lady
exhibiting maternal physiological transformations
courtesy haploid gametes
rendering woman with child,
whereby abdominal area balloons in girth.

Only twenty two days after conception
or five weeks and one day gestation,
the embryo's heart starts beating
ultrasound evinces whooshing sound
triggering perceptible unsuppressed mirth

Prenatal visits also important precaution
to keep tabs on presence of vital signs
of unborn baby.

In chorionic villus sampling CVS,
a sample of tissue is taken from the placenta.
The main advantage
of having CVS over amniocentesis?
CVS is done earlier than amniocentesis,
between 10 and 13 weeks of pregnancy.
The chance of miscarriage with CVS
slightly higher than chance
of miscarriage with amniocentesis.

Paul in black on Franklin Street
("Disobedience to tyrants
   Is obedience to God")

He speaks of Dead Poets,
The Good Shepherd, Matt Damon,
More Cowbell, MI6, Amityville Horror,
The Great Gatsby, Sacred Indian burial grounds, Christopher Walken, Robin Willians, Patch Adams, etc...

I listen. And listen. And listen

Gatsby believed in the Green Light.
So do I.
Always a pleasure, he says to me.
Good night, Paul. Good night.

Shoe me once
Shoe's on you

Shoe me twice
I'm keepin' those shoes

Harold Crick
More cowbell too

Comedy amidst Tragedy
Karen Eifel - clues?