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Cné Jun 2019
~
She leans over the sink
weight on her toes
to applied lipstick
in quick certain strokes,
the way a man signs
his hundredth signature
of the morning.

With lips of convictionless curvature
as the lipstick retracted like a red eel
all day she left her mark
on everything she kissed.
Even the air remarks
like intoxicating news
whispered from ear to ear.

~
Steven Fried Jun 2013
Feminine poetry is the most alluring.
The curvature of a woman's wrist around a pen is beautiful.
Their faces are knit in concentration so intense, yet
velvety smooth. Women are graceful- they glide along the page like an
ice skater. Feminine poetry has an elegant air incomparable with their counterpart.
There is
darkness, but with darkness comes strength.
Demons abound on their pages, bred from the hardships stretching through the millennia.
Dark inspiration breeds radiating beauty.
AJ Robertson Mar 2013
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual ***** from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,

torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs

he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)

the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
  so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….

he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.  
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)

the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about

he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene

off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i like reading about urban living, primarily by accounts of Frank O'Hara -
no one else, to be honest - where i'm placed i can vocalise
both the vulgarity and the serenity of a Wordsworth -
better had i an art gallery to run,
but my heart is too stony to accept the
chanced frivolous - it's anything beside that,
chanced, basked in, celebration of life -
perhaps i am outdated, and i know i am,
succumb to Kantian idealism, and no strand
of realism - after going to a brothel and learning
a few things, i was told i was a good man -
never did ****, too eager to watch the ******* -
****** tied - and then silencing my ****** -
i guess that's how quasi-country-folk live
these days... i simply prefer the solitude,
not from self-love: but as a way of assurance -
and later assembling - but i learn of the lives
in urban areas, of their little pests and phobias,
of places where people congregate -
and i feel no inclination to do likewise -
i don't even know why i'm travelling to
say something at the Cheltenham festival -
i've got nothing to say...
                               i can create usurpers of older
men, and blind-spot the youth,
        and be incriminated for both actions...
because i can...
                              but there's still O'Hara to mind...
and "all that love he could give in **** pursuit" -
apologies if i don't share that,
  my mentor Spinoza learned as much
in other circumstances -
                         hence the twilight of the man
of contempt and great love -
   as said, paradoxically, frankincense is
a scent appropriated as possessing anti-depressant
properties... yet we speak of: the man of sorrows.
but about my pet peeve, linguistic, obviously:
    the french for hotel - hôtel -
mind you, not trilling the r with mutually respective
   examples of English and French, but nonetheless
harking the r and amputee h in French,
     hôtel - or h'ôtel or h)ôtel - the diacritic mark
above the o is like a bracket, or < (less than) what's
expected in tongue kitted to say:
                                               h'otel - or simply o(h) tel -
        so too garçon - with ç extending into s
   and said: garçon / garson -
                           or with grave markings on a vowel:
that eats all other letters after it: cut-off grave e (è) -
    thus too the circumflex abuses invisible in
Cockney slang, and the eaten up h - via 'appening -
   'n 'appens only ounce -
                                            indeed the fighting took
places above as well as below the 26 symbols -
  in the diacritical realm of stresses and other punctuation
deficiencies - colon over the u for the umlaut,
there the fighting took place -
                      in an urban environment, would i ever
have spotted this? among fast food outlets, neon
and art galleries? probably not -
so akin said: lawlessness above and below the alphabet,
the warring fusion - but so they should have said,
in Mandarin - beyond vowels and consonants,
there are Surd variations of both -
              for aesthetic reasons -
our natural borders -                          and there are also
                    diacritical / exemplified stresses of
both sexes of letters -   some are silenced, some are
pronounced... they never told us that...
               they simply bragged about how naked
English was, and how certain people picked up
all the major eccentric intricacies -
                       to create a bourgeoisie levelling of
what's content with being a noun: intelligence.
there are rules beyond the five vowels and 21 consonants,
in that there's a trans-linguistic appropriation -
some become surds, some become pronounced -
   third limbs, six fingers, or Siamese twins -
                     given the book of revelation, and the phrase:
given power over all tongues - apart from ideogram
languages - and Arabic sidewinders on sand dunes -
you could, technically, incorporate all the particular stresses
onto the English language from all the Latin alphabet
languages... you could, in effect, paint onto all the
English particulars, all the brimful expressions of
diacritical marks being missing: English eccentricities -
you could, in effect, paint, once you have mastered
all the punctuation of pronunciation above the letters,
and below, not unlike (that that) what's already
deemed appropriate between words: i mean actual
letters - attach one diacritical mark to Finnegans' Wake,
and the whole work crumbles... you could effectively paint...
once you mastered the many particular instances of
atypical English deviation - making English, a language
less offensive in a sense that it already is:
for English is offensive in that its universal,
a franca lingua of commerce - and since that is the case:
there must be a status quo lingua - in this case:
English with diacritical marks - expressing all the
obvious deviations - this process, i am gleeful in stating:
will take as much effort as mapping out man's d.n.a.,
that's not pompous, that's actually hopeful,
hopeful in the sense that i spotted this, and someone
will take over in 50 years time, to incorporate
all the public uses of diacritical marks in other Latinißed
languages a pompous: congregation -
nesting on the bare rocks - after all that 16th and 17th century
******* in England and tongue and Empire: doth do, etc.
modernity says? Irvine Welsh's trainspotting Scootish
dialect excess - aye wee and e -
only when all the diacritical propositions are congregated
in the English Eden will we sing hallelujah -
this is a challenge, after all, English with its
Welsh and Scottish, Berkshire and Cornish, Cockney
and Richmond fluffy accents can be feed
this invasion of nuances already expressed:
thus in abstract:                      ABSTRACT

(originally herioglyphs)
        heliographic                     (v. the ideogram -
                                                      or no pyramid to ditto)
        and thus the heliocentric theory -
countered with this, or these the 26 fractions
      of the geocentric notion, England: bellybutton
of the world - as such... helioglyphic - glitches
  or graphics or glyph-on-glyph in that x = y combined with
   x squared and the parabolic curvature and foundation |)
                geographic - geoglyphic -
when then the Greenwich meridian turn into
the Greenwich universal accenting?      English
is fertile ground to apply the many stresses,
                                   sure, make it the universal tongue,
the globalisation vehicle, but dress yourself for that purpose,
accept all the invaders to your schemes invoking the 24/7 global
community... **** up! don't tartan up! **** up!
            with the wigs and the perfumes, and the bowler hats
and the neckties - you did it once... do it again!
                English is fertile ground for incorporating all
the linguistic "anomalies" - sure, little would look ugly if
written litle - soon to the invocation of lyre - or saccharolytic -
    dog's tongue lapping and a thousand slurs later:
                     cha cha cha and kappa and cholesterol
     and cheap and chasing foxes with bloodhounds -
                         and cappuccino - and chisel - chromosome:
                                          cistern (alter. çistern) -
    if something akin to this doesn't happen...
          we're all be playing the Mongolian harmonica,
by default of the 24 hours that are stressed to
be as important as an entire year of patience in waiting
for autumnal grapes and the wine pressed.
Tawanda Mulalu Feb 2016
Perfect: I used that word once to talk about you
as if you were a doll with limbs made of plastic:
stiff and whimsical and subject to the niggardly
commands of the conscious- yet you, who thinks
as aggressively as any doll-house builder do not
construct your own set-pieces; instead you
pirouette into one carefully constructed day to the
next as you delicately
stride
from bed to shower to wardrobe to mirror to desktop to
window to mirror to mirror to
mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them
all-
and the staid look on your face when the mirror gives no
answer
because it can’t. Checkered skirt, sharp eyelashes, wary
jumper, almost heels. Perfect, you might think
for a moment before your eyes roll gently from self
to mirror
to self
to mirror
to mirror
the self. What was
it that you were looking for if all it does is lead
you back to your skin? Meanwhile, the snow
stutters softly from above as if God had dandruff-
perfect- and it all gently glazes the spongy surface of the world like
flawless coconut icing on some sorry party cake- perfect- and the morning
bell rings impossibly on time like the last
breath you thought was your last- perfect- and somewhere in
America I use words to remind you of the little
unreachables
of perfection that both start and end with your perfectly
snow-pale skin, where somewhere in
America and somewhere on
your thighs perfect ridges of red have formed themselves like
plastic scratches on a Barbie which we both think
are little but we both know
are big
because you are not plastic.

                                               At nighttime our feet
skip on the icy brick pathways that lead from
the dorm-rooms to the library and we shiver
as the snowflakes bob in and out of our bodies
like thoughts
that seem funny but aren’t quite- they melt away
as soon as they stumble upon our skin. From our mouths
cloudy puffs of being flutter out- little butterflies affirming
out listless snowflake-filled minds, sperming out ice-clouds
from our mouths, our mouths, our mouths; birthing friendship.
Breath, visible, is laughter. I trip and swear and momentarily
skate
across a sudden ice-surface as you speak another ice-breath. We
arrive
at the library but dart towards the empty right-side, the science
classrooms. We hope
to examine the thought-skirmishes on your right thigh, to turn  
and change this hopeless world-spinning into centrifuge
separation-
make apparent the light from the dark
                        the firmament from the void
                        the flesh from the plastic, the-
here we are as you talk
about your family and I
try my best to look you
in the eye so I
can become
your eyes
even when
normally
I
am
so
vehemently
against

staring

at the soul-gates of another being-
here we are as you talk;
God is still missing from the centrifuge
of the endlessly turning world- your
axis
is your skin yet
you trust it
not. The salads without dressing,
        the weighing scales,
        the taste of bile at the back of your
throat-
all for skin that
       you
do
not
      trust.
All for flesh that you think is plastic
so
     you
     cut.
      
             Enough
talk because the bell cuts through the flesh
of our conversation. Enough
talk because the world insists on
turning still
and forcing us to revolve
with it. Enough
breathing, enough
snow, enough
life. I remember you saying
that the ratios of your face are wrong;
that certain equilibriums do not exist between
your cheeks your lips your eyes your life…I remember the science
classrooms where parts of you were as mathematical as the architecture... I remember how
you keep thinking your flesh is plastic… You forget how
inglorious the nature of these words is. The problem
with human thought, with the ratios of your face, with the
geometric structures that cut across your thighs, with the
statistical neatness with which your family decomposes;
the problem with our conception of perfect is how
awkwardly it both exists and does not exist for us to
see.
The ratios of your face which you think are broken are
the same miracles I wonder about as you laugh. The incorrect distance
from your cheek to your eye which you think is wrong is the same
lightyear which separates the stars from the planets. The curvature
of your stomach is the bending of a spacetime to accommodate
the way the air must move to let your body occupy the space and time in which it
exists.
The ratios you speak of spring from your own limitlessness, your own
perfect imperfections , imperfect perfections-
strange oddities and unfathomable beauties and yes. Yes,
even the ridges across your right thigh are minute, red,
gasping
grand-canyons of
flesh,
of human, of breathing clay
flesh-
           never
plastic;
            always
worthy.
            
              Recently the voices in my head have been getting louder,
telling me all sorts of things about how the snow ought to bury me
in its mercilessness. They mention also that my words bear no meaning,
my thoughts even less so. Assumedly, the ridges across your thigh
carry such spectres as well but, I messaged you before you went to bed
about coming out and having an adventure because tick-tock-tick-tock…tick…tock…tick-
the last bell of the day is going to ring soon and the voices and ridges
will assert themselves again with the bedtime silence, but check your Facebook
messages and come outside and let’s go skipping with your friends across
the century-old polished prep-school brick pathways that smell archaic because it’s

snowing outside and it’s lovely.
For a friend.

Update, 4/23/2018, the poem found a home here: https://postscriptpublication.wordpress.com/2018/04/22/ratios/   thanks to a friend.
Cné May 2019
Locked in your fiery eyes i submit
naked, **** exposed to be exploited
by Your will i lay before you awaiting....
to begin Our intimacy
wanton to please

Breathing in the anticipation
i am frozen by Your hesitation
for i crave                    
Your touch,
              Your lips,
                               Your embrace
in every rise of my *******
breathing deep
my thoughts creep
and time slows

In Your soul, i wish to peek...

Behind the lurking darkness in Your eyes
Is it love or lust hidden in disguise

i acquiesce
my forbidden fruit i wish to bare
the entrance to my sacred chambers
ripe with carnal desire
may it be Your pleasure

To imprint Your sting
forever seared
upon my redden flesh
so that it lingers in tenderness
long after Our journey

Your caress against my flesh
in piercing pleasure resonates
up the curvature of my spine
releasing infinite electric butterflies
i cannot hide

You plunge deep below the surface
infusing Our bodies as One
rhythmically in motion
edging each crest before plunging
deeper into the next
into the depths of brazen hunger

i want to surrender
though my growl cannot be hidden
‘neath the rumble of my heighten instinct
to soar in expletive exclamation
my animal within

my pounded thighs spread wider
below pulsating muscles
beating louder, harder, deeper
my cavity contracts
howling in blazed heat

i scream
through my glare
into Your eyes
of consent again, release me
in the allowance of your’s
entwined

Allow me to feel you
as you fill me
emotions untethered
in Your mind
Your body and spirit

The rapture of Your release
i capture
in my mind
my body and soul
anchored to my memory
Our journey

In gaping breath
We fall ...

Entangled in blissful euphoria
Your shivering body envelopes mine
a sweet embrace
a tender kiss
long has it been since I’ve felt such passion
i admit...
A collaboration
with multi sumus
https://hellopoetry.com/conundrum/
each posting our own.
Thank you multi sumus for the pleasure of including me into your writing world.


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2678968/lovelust-act-i/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2702803/lovelust-act-ii/

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2869242/lust-act-iii/
Lancaster bore him—such a little town,
Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead
And sends the children down there with their mother
To run wild in the summer—a little wild.
Sometimes he joins them for a day or two
And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near.
They meet him in the general store at night,
Pre-occupied with formidable mail,
Rifling a printed letter as he talks.
They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so:
Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat,
If not at heart, at least on principle.
Lately when coming up to Lancaster
His train being late he missed another train
And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction
After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired
To think of sitting such an ordeal out,
He turned to the hotel to find a bed.

“No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless——”
Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps
And cars that shook and rattle—and one hotel.

“You say ‘unless.’”

“Unless you wouldn’t mind
Sharing a room with someone else.”

“Who is it?”

“A man.”

“So I should hope. What kind of man?”

“I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man.
Separate beds of course you understand.”
The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.

“Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair?
Has he had the refusal of my chance?”

“He was afraid of being robbed or murdered.
What do you say?”

“I’ll have to have a bed.”

The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs
And down a narrow passage full of doors,
At the last one of which he knocked and entered.
“Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.”

“Show him this way. I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not so drunk I can’t take care of myself.”

The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot.
“This will be yours. Good-night,” he said, and went.

“Lafe was the name, I think?”

“Yes, Layfayette.
You got it the first time. And yours?”

“Magoon.

Doctor Magoon.”

“A Doctor?”

“Well, a teacher.”

“Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired?
Hold on, there’s something I don’t think of now
That I had on my mind to ask the first
Man that knew anything I happened in with.
I’ll ask you later—don’t let me forget it.”

The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away.
A man? A brute. Naked above the waist,
He sat there creased and shining in the light,
Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt.
“I’m moving into a size-larger shirt.
I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it.
I just found what the matter was to-night:
I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree
When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag.
I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having.
’Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back,
Not liking to own up I’d grown a size.
Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?”

The Doctor caught his throat convulsively.
“Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.”

“Fourteen! You say so!
I can remember when I wore fourteen.
And come to think I must have back at home
More than a hundred collars, size fourteen.
Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them.
They’re yours and welcome; let me send them to you.
What makes you stand there on one leg like that?
You’re not much furtherer than where **** left you.
You act as if you wished you hadn’t come.
Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous.”

The Doctor made a subdued dash for it,
And propped himself at bay against a pillow.

“Not that way, with your shoes on ****’s white bed.
You can’t rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off.”

“Don’t touch me, please—I say, don’t touch me, please.
I’ll not be put to bed by you, my man.”

“Just as you say. Have it your own way then.
‘My man’ is it? You talk like a professor.
Speaking of who’s afraid of who, however,
I’m thinking I have more to lose than you
If anything should happen to be wrong.
Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat!
Let’s have a show down as an evidence
Of good faith. There is ninety dollars.
Come, if you’re not afraid.”

“I‘m not afraid.
There’s five: that’s all I carry.”

“I can search you?
Where are you moving over to? Stay still.
You’d better tuck your money under you
And sleep on it the way I always do
When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.”

“Will you believe me if I put it there
Right on the counterpane—that I do trust you?”

“You’d say so, Mister Man.—I’m a collector.
My ninety isn’t mine—you won’t think that.
I pick it up a dollar at a time
All round the country for the Weekly News,
Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?”

“Known it since I was young.”

“Then you know me.
Now we are getting on together—talking.
I’m sort of Something for it at the front.
My business is to find what people want:
They pay for it, and so they ought to have it.
Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor—
Feel out the public sentiment—he says.
A good deal comes on me when all is said.
The only trouble is we disagree
In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat—
You know what that is, sort of double-dyed;
The News has always been Republican.
Fairbanks, he says to me, ‘Help us this year,’
Meaning by us their ticket. ‘No,’ I says,
‘I can’t and won’t. You’ve been in long enough:
It’s time you turned around and boosted us.
You’ll have to pay me more than ten a week
If I’m expected to elect Bill Taft.
I doubt if I could do it anyway.’”

“You seem to shape the paper’s policy.”

“You see I’m in with everybody, know ’em all.
I almost know their farms as well as they do.”

“You drive around? It must be pleasant work.”

“It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun.
What I like best’s the lay of different farms,
Coming out on them from a stretch of woods,
Or over a hill or round a sudden corner.
I like to find folks getting out in spring,
Raking the dooryard, working near the house.
Later they get out further in the fields.
Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn;
The family’s all away in some back meadow.
There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes.
And later still they all get driven in:
The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches
Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees
To whips and poles. There’s nobody about.
The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking.
And I lie back and ride. I take the reins
Only when someone’s coming, and the mare
Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go.
I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one.
She’s got so she turns in at every house
As if she had some sort of curvature,
No matter if I have no errand there.
She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am.
It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though.
Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep,
All in a family row down to the youngest.”

“One would suppose they might not be as glad
To see you as you are to see them.”

“Oh,
Because I want their dollar. I don’t want
Anything they’ve not got. I never dun.
I’m there, and they can pay me if they like.
I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by.
Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink.
I drink out of the bottle—not your style.
Mayn’t I offer you——?”

“No, no, no, thank you.”

“Just as you say. Here’s looking at you then.—
And now I’m leaving you a little while.
You’ll rest easier when I’m gone, perhaps—
Lie down—let yourself go and get some sleep.
But first—let’s see—what was I going to ask you?
Those collars—who shall I address them to,
Suppose you aren’t awake when I come back?”

“Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.”

“Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.”

“But really I—I have so many collars.”

“I don’t know who I rather would have have them.
They’re only turning yellow where they are.
But you’re the doctor as the saying is.
I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me:
I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep.
I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door
When I come back so you’ll know who it is.
There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people.
I don’t want you should shoot me in the head.
What am I doing carrying off this bottle?
There now, you get some sleep.”

He shut the door.
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.
Searich Apr 2012
I have a vision of you,
Fresh shaved legs,
Smooth as silk,
Nylon stockings,
Gartered neat and snug,
Gliding effortlessly,
Across your skin,
Your slow moving hand,
Feeling your legs curvature,
Clean well-oiled scented skin,
Ready for a soft touch,
Of gentle hands soft caresses,
Velvet black high-heeled shoes,
Slipped upon your feet,
Dressed in black velvet dress,
Clinging like hugs,
Everything is just so,
Hungry red lips,
Outlined perfectly applied,
Disguised a sultry smile,
Of one not yet kissed,
Eyes lined dark,
Shaped like night,
Made up in dim lights,
Bedroom eyes they say,
This way no tears are seen,
Sleek painted red nails fingers,
Reaching for courage,
Brushing across your lips,
Wink of your eye,
Blow soft kisses across backroom,
A fresh spray of perfume
Long strides across a stage,
Music starts to play,
Fresh shaved legs,
With glittered oils,
Gleam with every move,
Closing misty night eyes,
Getting lost in trance,
When music stops,
Open your eyes,
Once again your still waiting it seems,
High-heeled shoes,
You are not alone,
Your smile wide,
When music stops.
Shirlee Shelley Oct 2010
To lie beside you
To have you suckle my breast
with your warm wet tongue...
To remember you softly caressing every inch of my body...
The curvature of your hips,
rhythmically dancing with mine until they seemed as one..
To feel you entering inside me,
filling me with your sweet nectar..
The wetness sliding down my thigh and gently falling onto the sheets...
Both of our scents filling the room with the unmistakable aroma of animal magnetism...
And when we had said our goodbyes,
and I fondly thought back to our passage in time,
I was once again aroused by the memories of our *******...
I can still taste you..us..our sweet nectar mixing, as did our love,
in that one passage in time...
Zac Walter Apr 2013
The guitar strings think of you when they play this tune
The C chord is the curvature of your body when you lay gracefully
The G chord is the grandeur of your personality in public
The A chord is your accent when you say good morning
The D chord is your demeanor all the time
The F chord is how your hair falls on your shoulders
The E chord is how I will love you eternally
Gazing into her crystal eyes
not a glimpse of light
in her pale illustrious orbs
her couture matched
the threads of a goddess woven by silk
never has the world heard such a harmonious voice
her hair as black and glossy
like raven feathers
a frame so divine
complexities came to mind
that god himself was almost unable to
carve a radiant smile as glimmering
her soft skin made her known
as the temptress of the night
her sweet mouth sang of hymns children slept too
the curvature of her chin wickedly attractive
following the course of her smile to her rosy cheeks
the ring on her finger is one of saturns
the hue from her lips are as red as foxes
burning with infinite intensity.

Her pale forehead knew every answer in the universe
the glow between her eyebrows majestic
her third eye spoke of exquisite beauty
holy light was her aura
angels danced around her
shrouding her body with stardust from the heavens
butterflies applied her makeup
whenever she arose from her chrysalis
revolving the world on her throne
without a bead of pressure to perspire
her vocals an instrument to my heart
listened to with wild passion
luster from her skin expensive as gold from India
her existence was solace
for rational reasoning alone
unflawed her lips reached mine
under the eclipse
the shadow of my phantom
caressing her hips
my wild craving tasting
what it it truly means to be in love.

The orchestra of her movement
can save a man from death
her words whispered to me like rhinestones
the touch from her waxy hand
trembling across my stature
cracking, shaking
with electricity at every fiber
pulsating from my heart to hers
capsizing from secrets dripping in my ear
she treats me to more wine kisses
traces of her ruby red lipstick
on my chest
her lofty thoughts completed mine.
the golden trim of life
seen throughout the land.
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman


******* a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,  
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing  down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released

a one way only sign

time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word  leave just this:

where is the in in
intimate?

are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?

you swear never again

until committing once more,

a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,

and the greater toll taken and paid for,

and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity

happily


<•>

9/17/17 10:55pm
George Krokos Feb 2013
A brief statement about certain controversial questions and issues relating to some core religious topics such as:
What is God?
Where is God?
Who Is God?
and a new or old philosophy and perspective (depending on the readers views) offering an explanation to these age old questions.

Prelude:
The proof of That which is not restricted to any construct of the human mind and is beyond imagination is Divine. This is sometimes revealed to a select few in the form of a revelation or philosophy from time to time and is what history calls religion and is also uplifting and blissful.
The ordinary human mind and intellect cannot comprehend or fathom that which is beyond it but only staggers at the attempt, bewildering as it is to the ego which is the seat of the mind and limited individual personality. (See Note #1)

Standpoint 1
It is generally stated that neither the existence nor the non-existence of God can be proven. But if there is absolutely nothing or everything is somehow taken away, then whatever is left or there is that remains can only be the place, source or state from which everything is brought into existence and sustained for a while within its own infinite being and by its own infinite or unlimited latent capacity of power, knowledge and blissful freedom of imagination and creation.

Standpoint 2
The state of absolute nothing (colorless, formless, odorless, indivisible, unfathomable), if there ever was such a state, would then be the complete and infinite unmanifest state or prior condition of this Boundless and Eternal Being or God from where all the universe, as we have come to know and see to date, has come and in which it still must exist without any exception regardless of what there appears now to be.

Standpoint 3
All the planets, moons, suns, stars, galaxies, nebulae and whatever else there may be are nothing other than, relatively speaking, like the atoms, molecules, compounds, cells etc that go to make up the body of a living physical entity, and in this specific and particular case, the manifest cosmic being known as or called the universe, and the so called black holes would then be found to be the arterial pathways of the energy or substance known as dark energy and matter which is of a non atomic nature (See Note #2). It should also be noted that the simplest and first atom or atomic substance or element is hydrogen, which is made up of just an electron and a proton, and is the most abundant atomic substance in the universe. In other words from the one formless substance of dark energy and matter come hydrogen, helium, lithium, etc (in the order of the atomic scale), from the simplest and lightest to the most complicated, densest and heaviest.

Standpoint 4
This then is the reason why we should consider the infinitely large of the outer universe with all the cosmic forces and objects known and unknown on the one hand, while its opposite, the infinitely small, being that of the inner universe, in the form of man’s mind and emotions together with the sub and atomic forces on the other, both co-existing at the same time without an apparent beginning or end, that make up the whole visible and invisible creation which is seemingly expanding, until the endless end, in something greater than itself, for how else could this ever be? (See Note #4)

Standpoint 5
The preceeding points help to validate the statements in the scriptures which say “as above so below” and that “we are made in the image and likeness of God” (ie: our soul or spirit within), and an aspect of Einstein’s theory of Relativity that mentions or postulates of ‘the curvature of space’ and certain aspects of Quantum Physics. The preceeding points also bring together both views of the so called ‘Big Bang’ and ‘Steady State’ theories that have gained popularity in modern times and where the former seems to be the more widely accepted view.

Standpoint 6
The five so called elements of Earth, Water, Fire, Air and Ether mentioned in certain philosophical texts and which correlate to the five lower energy centers (or Chakras) of the human body are complemented by two higher ones being those of Light and Sound of the two higher centers. This also explains the scripture where it is written “in the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God” and where “God said let there be light and there was light” (See Note #3) which indicates that from the ‘Word of God’ or primeval sound came light, then ether, air, fire, water and earth in a descending order. The last five mentioned elements deal specifically with life and conditions on our own world and also other worlds where one, some or all of the seven kingdoms of evolution are to be found in various stages of development. (See Note #5)

Standpoint 7
If man is made in the image and likeness of God then whatever can be seen outside can also be seen inside in the sense that there is nothing but God that really exists and that the essence of God is in man's soul and spirit. An analogy of this would be to look at a drop of an infinite ocean (without boundaries or divsions) and to recognize or realise that the drop of the ocean is nothing other than the ocean itself which may apparently seem to be separate or limited due to a bubble of ignorance and limited perception (the effect of duality or God's Cosmic Illusion or Maya). The illusion of duality becomes less apparent and is indeed negligible to the point of non existence as man evolves spiritually and realises his oneness with the essence or real part of his inner being which is non other than a drop in (not separate from) this indivisible infinite ocean of God. When this 'essence' is made the focus of an individual's consciousness and is continually invoked upon by various means it then becomes activated or awakened, so to speak, from a dormant latent state, to one of a highly charged and source seeking intelligent energy that is returning back to its real home or state from the lowest center of consciousness (gross, dense and material) in the human body to the highest centers being those in the higher parts of the body which are of a much finer or subtle consciousness and associated with light and sound (i.e. the primeval sound and light of creation) which come from God or the state of infinite consciousness.  This is also the state of Absolute Nothing mentioned in Standpoint 2 above from where Absolutely Everything has come from or manifested within its own Being and the Infinite Existence (all that exists does so within God) due to the infinite latent capacity of power, knowledge and blissful freedom of imagination and creation (Standpoint 1).  
-----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------
Notes:
(#1) See also my other prose titled "God is the Highest Good".
(#2) The universe is the infinite creature or creation of God. It resembles more or less the atomic structure of a living infinite organic entity and is the physical manifestation of an Eternal Un-manifest and Unfathomable Divine  Existence or Boundless Being which is the Only Reality or God.
(#3) See The Old and New Testaments of The Holy Bible.
(#4) We use a telescope to see into the body of the universe being incredibly large and use a microscope to see things or signs of life that are incredibly small.
(#5) The Seven kingdoms Of Evolution are: 1. Gaseous forms including stars, suns, planets etc, stone and metal. 2. Vegetable forms 3. Worm forms including all insects and reptiles 4. Fish forms 5. Bird Forms 6. Animal forms 7. Human forms.
________________
This is my contribution to the world of philosophy and to those who are curious about the nature of religion. Written in 2010. I will welcome any commentary or feedback on this whether it be good or otherwise.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
well, mind you the curvature of the spine,
furry all round,
now glacier smooth with forehead
as naked as a baboon *** -
i'll keep you minding that image -
now, enlighten me,
why are we sending super-expensive
equipment to the celestial sahara
that's mars?
                       why are we gravitating
our inquiry there?
once philosophy was born from awe per se,
now it's born from mindlessness -
and i know it's harsh -
but given the scales, and timing,
i succumb to the physics' time-scale
rather than biology's -
before earth was to be inhabited,
before it was habitable -
the earth was smaller and hotter,
hence the volcanic volatility -
indeed there was life on Mars,
but that life migrated -
it had a different ecosystem -
less obstructive and more inclusive -
when the sun was a higher tier cauldron -
when earth was inhabitable -
when the sun was warmer -
              an earth inhabitable,
life thrived on Mars, once -
but then life on Mars begot migration;
i esteem earth as Australia with all
the convicts dumped on the forgotten
bridges of tectonic continents -
i've been here before, but not in a gorilla suit
readied for a party -
standing outside all of space & time
includes a necessary evil of abstracting either -
and by abstracting creating a different
non-collective narrative -
and so it was:
when the lifespan of the sun at the genesis
point was at its richest,
it soon passed to be excluding,
hence the nadir, the exodus of the sun's lifespan,
when earth became habitable - and was -
prior to the asteroid belt of the celestial
umbilical chord of safety -
still earth resembles the colony that australia
became administering the empire's convicts
among the Aboriginals -
but why probe a dead planet when you
have a dying star to mind?
of course the third planet in question is
Mercury, since Venus is as gaseous
as Jupiter and Saturn -
the world where the red dwarf will become
a spectacular insomnia of the girth,
the equator - but why probe a dead planet?
it's inhabitants never had the same
ecosystem akin to ours - why probe it?
all this work for a ******* ice cube?!
you have to be ******* me!
time-scales, remember, i'm as absurd mentioning
this as society is measuring the Olympic
100 metre sprint akin to formula 1 decimals of
care... i don't care... one finished 1st, the
other 2nd... all it takes is the dipping of
the *** in the sand to begin measuring
the long jump rather than the extended feet mark...
of course there was life on Mars, there was life
on Mars... but the dynamic of the sun changed,
it cooled down... so the next profitable planet
could express itself in evolution
from volcanic eczema... there was once life on Mars,
but there's no longer a case to argue for proof....
globalisation gave us unity among once
warring ethnicities... but that will hardly
accumulate in a trans-global orientation...
i've spotted a u.f.o. once, by god i did...
it was fluorescent like a bug phosphorescent
in the dark with a disco ball *** to shine...
listen... this time-scale is long enough to craft
a future history according to what the Martians
did - and this is my idea of god...
happy? no. sad? no. anything at all? mm...
now we're talking - earth was once
non-habitable, too hot, hence the cold  blooded
lizards akin to birch trees, the scouts of forestry -
then the mammals all confused turning
against each other when the predatory aesthetics
were forgotten at kin and Gemini to lions -
life was once apparent on Mars, but Mars is
a dead planet, i wish it was an antique shop
that the n.a.s.a. hopeful geniuses wish it was...
but it's not... just imagine that train of thought
surrounding the sun like you do with the march
of progress... but with the sun imagine
a rotation of progress...
              hey! i wouldn't be looking for
liquid nitrogen bacteria mummified on Mars...
i'd be wondering how the circle
evolved from O, to 0, to ∞ (8)
given the squish - the opposite of two black holes
colliding; honestly, you can find more meaning
in things while you take the big to be small;
i know i'm not famous among nouns -
i can hardly equal the fame of casual noun usage,
no one can, and i know that the fame i sought
is actually an anonymity in verbs (actions),
i forever the shadow - mind yourself to be content
with such a fate as i have found myself content in
progressing to expressing such a chequered flag -
chequered flag, the irony, the invitation of the many
participants for a game that takes two -
the irony of the chequered flag as the death of chess -
anyway - Mars was once a home to those who
came prior, prior to when earth was not habitable -
bypass Venus and you enter the history of Mercury,
the last rock to be minded -
and no one will prove me wrong, to have lived that
long... it is, i must add, rather dangerous
to posit yourself outside all space and all time -
it's dangerous, there's no saturday night awaiting you,
there's no casual talk over a coffee for mortal
problems taking fold and shape...
once you breach the barriers of sane conclusions
that the river explains you will become a cursor
in the only dimension waiting for you -
a vibrating stasis, imagining geographies for
clearer conclusions of movement -
and since man's technological advances have provided
the entire mapping of the earth,
you will be cleanly placed to usurp any other
imaginings other than those prescribed to
the reduction of yourself as x
moving between             point A                and
                                       point B -
                    now try that without geography
and with knowledge, as the greeks famously answered,
             a coordinating cursor x between
point α                    and                                     ω.
Alexis D Cruz Aug 2022
from your eyes, springs forth juniper
carefree and warm like waves of summer
glittering rays of gold frolic through the blinds
highlighting you, every perfect curvature
eager, but steady, your lips invade my body with purpose
gentle, but sure, your hands explore my entire surface
as if I were created solely to satisfy your need for rapture
when you enter my world, time stills – thunderous and deliberate
yet, like lightning, you electrify my entire being
I sigh at the exhilaration, my fingers clutch the sheets beneath me
I yearn for them to travel to your favorite place within me
Jasmine Flower Oct 2014
If you were literature
I'd tattoo you all over me
and let you seep through my skin
filling my veins with your words.
There are a lot of pieces that make up the English language:
capitals, semicolons, that ******* Oxford comma
but you,
you give english a definition.
Love, when you speak to me
I see the word bubbles levitating above your head
pinning down each sentence with fragments of your voice
your lips form stories,
the kind I actually like reading
the poems that leave me wanting more
and trust me
I DO WANT MORE.
But I'm Dr. Suess
and you are Shakespear.

I'm sorry, I'm not what you deserve
that my lines are crooked
and pages wrinkled
that you deserve heavenly white sheets
to share the curvature of your letters with
If only I could hold the spiral notebook that is you
caress your leather cover
I would whisper all the definitions
inscribed in my brain associated with your existence,
trying to untangle the string of words you knotted.

But reality isn't written.
I cannot serenade you with my words
you will forever be on top of this modern caste system
and there are no ladders
how can I talk to you at a football game
when you're the one on the field
that today is survival of the fittest,
if someone were to take you into their arms
it would boost their reputation,
but you are not my reputation
You are the language I want to speak
You are the lyrics to every song
You are all my favorite words.
And yes, I may just be the
routinely period at the end of your sentences
and the chances of being with you shouldn't even be considered
"chances"
but since someone such as you exists,
I can promise.

I can promise you
all these imperfect sweet nothings
until my pen runs out of ink.
Always.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Wind swept

Wild places the grass it puts on a veritable orchestra of movement as it undulates to the power of the breeze that passes
Mountain meadows splashed with a profusion of flowers they jiggle as if there tickled about something or other
The crest of the hill bordered with trees sloping down the hill children are running reminiscent of Jack and Jill
This utopia of nature sets aside the hurly burly the curvature of the hills still the wind hold the sun just right you it invites

Cross these pasture lands the feeding ground of many cattle and sheep the pride of the farmer who keeps
Inexorably bound by breed and creed for centuries this way of life flourishes among these native grasses
Tender shoots these roots give of their riches the sun and rain gives them a time to reign with joy all reaps
Pleasure in the walk letting fingers glide over the heads of tall grasses the silent telling of harmony filled poise

Future generations will be brought to these shadowed grounds they too will by their lives express and know contentment
Hourly they hold in sod that has known the breath of time as it has passed time and time again it enlivens breaks fourth
Sturdy and resplendent it shows all its dependability the same respect settlers knew is found the builders of this continent
Long shadows grow upon earths shoulders she knows the good and the bad but through resilience remains unconquered

The distant mountain stands eternal guard, it affects rainfall, mutes the winds force guarantying a peaceful valley
Perpetuity is taught in this land tomorrows unfold from days gone by with regularity they build and keep the way open
Stewardship the blessed hope working in harmony with all that surrounds at days end this will be the final sum and tally
The herdsman knows the time he invests it well always with broad vision does he act in this wisdom all will be victorious
Poetic T Apr 2021
She was never the one,
   I wanted her to be...

Giving her all of me,
   never asking for a thank you,

or even do you want me....

All I wanted was the smile,
   the curvature of her lips to
say I like to be with you...

But I couldn't feed the hunger of
  my heart with the maybe's

She was never the one,
   I only fixated on her curvature.

Giving in to my insecurities
  never asking if I was the one.

or even that I mattered to her.

All i wanted was to be loved.
   The curvature of her heart to
mirror the image of what id

         imagined our love to be.

Bee stung in the reality that i
    wasn't her nectar,
more the annoyance that she'd settle
for to sting
I was a ****,
  never the flower....


Only the one swotting her away
awaiting to
    be


stung...
Chloe Jun 2014
It’s 11:49 p.m.
and we’re still driving.
That’s all we’ve done.
The needle hovers
lifting and landing
upon the E for empty.

We’re content with
the smoky upholstery
that buoys our curvature.
The mechanical shelter
that trundles beneath us.

He’s rubbing his chin
where his shadow grows.
His ruby eyes on the road.
Knees pulled to my throat
I breathe and savor constellations
wondering how they might feel.

Stubble and midnight starlight
is how the next day begins.
Vernarth was ready at the threshold of the validity of the constellation of Orion, barely a hundred millionths as indicated by the Duoverse in his Cosmogonic amphiboly, and sensitive to physical space with the Kli vessels that he carried on his back that were in the proximity of the Loop of Bernard as the Omission nebula as the exponential hemicycle in the center of Aurion's oculus waiting for Vernarth and redistribute its molecules at 518 light-years or 440 Parsec, with the diameter that will be reflected in Patmos of more than 300 light-years condensed with the element of Hydor or water from high space over Aurion. Vernarth, united by the fragrant hand of the Mashiach, could carry it when he moved away from the Opistodomos and the remains of incandescent lagoons of supernova materials that surrounded them to accelerate the mass of the Iridescent Nimbus that Vernarth would carry, and the Mashiach as a sentinel of his Purgation. already defined whenever the simultaneous explosion of the Super Nova with Patmos becomes effective, and the Terrestrial World in impulsiveness that admonished him under the right shoulder blade in the skinny hollow of the arm that was getting rid of the oscillometer right at the original entrance of Betelgeuse, and when Vernarth remained alone in the frontal altitude chamber to take off towards the cosmogonies of Eridanus to tune into the Ptolemaic astral. The Sybilla who acted as stellar consort would be Herophile with overtones of expansion and her brilliant metric mass that would take her through Betelgeuse Orionis allied to a multifunctional instrument such as the entrance Aulos, expelling hydrogen-like an Ace in 240 harmonic scales, and sounds of light that they boomed towards the Pleiades and the Milky Way where it would be the supposed first state of paradox where Vernarth would utter: "Give me a little Gála and I will be more than Zeus". This is where he will experience the diarthrosis of his synovial joints in the process of Hyaline cartilage, allying himself with the two bones and synovium to hunt down the Trapper Aurion in advance to wake up from the feared defenseless world that he feared since everything he abandoned despite having his Purg discharged, he kept sensing that if nothing would work for a lost world. Here Vernarth would hold Alexander the Great's first childhood vision as an infant at Péla using his scapula with the force of rubbing discs at the Olympiad making the sky his Odyssey-encrusted Constellation of whips, and sullen Hellenistic being by May in the amber trunk trapezoid and in each hand a Xiphos and Dorus.

The pathologies were at the forefront with dexterous inclinations of his Kopis to the west when he throws it and the whistle of return makes him see that the meteorites reached as far as his gaze could observe the latitudes of the Tyrrhenian. He takes his bronze-brass cudgel with the corrosive breath, filing the odysseys on the concupiscent ******* of Eos, Goddess of the dawn, opening the heavens of the eager natives of Gála, by sipping raw milk from the right edge of the corner of her upper lips before the first dawns of the world, when Eos would be in grains or grasses that brandished from the bronze club that Vernarth waited for before leaving Gaia, or rather the fertile land of Patmos that officiated at him. Mega hectares appeared that threatened Enopion's revenge, disturbing his eyes that shone in Hesiod's striae by advocating for him in the Duoverse where all deities would be annulled but his psychic ramifications as stellar humans would be covered by the action of Helium gas. In this way Vernarth was already bidding farewell to Saint John the Apostle with his rounded eye set on the shine of both pupils between Mintaka, Alnitak, and the third shine of his pupils united in communion with Vernarth when arriving sideways at the pale shine of Alnilam (The Three Mariah) fourth star to follow in Orion as the brightest of the three on Vernarth's neck like a necklace of precious pearls. In this way, he climbed the steps to measure the slow brilliance of the immensity of the celestial solstice that raised him with the expedient Sun that also led him towards the twelfth lunation of the celestial vault attached to Pléyone in his bolometric oceanic matrix, which will arise between the stellar limitrophe between the Canes Mayores and Menores, and a priori in the measurement of the eye of Aurion always harassing the Pleiades. The intrigue will be reborn for the second time from the Duoverse's momentum that Vernarth will have to leave in the biosphere oscillation wasteland of Prometheus already freeing himself from life in community, and from an extreme sensitivity of major psychic connections that will flow throughout the immensity of inaccessible time. , on the atmosphere of the earth like bronzes that twist in the necks of the oxen that urinate on the endowments of the Barnard Loop, and its polyphonic magnetic exciter, on it the ***** of Orion falling on the poles as flagrant Amphibology. The Kanti Steed and the Aorion nebula to the beat of a waltz will ionize chemical portents of ions free of electrons, on the neutral molecules of Betelgeuse to propagate in the nerves of the shoulders of the bronze club ad limit of harmonious praxis, and net compromise by supplying steps to the nebula and art of the Duoverse that shows the primeval daily days as in his alchemical armband, germinating astral Lynothorax and axillary armpit that held him in his maximum club, cutting down roots of Olivo Bernar after Barnard's Loops in between of fugitive stars that go regimented in their ionized bleeding esplanade, like Stellae Novae that transfers astronomical cults in the formation and pretext of going through the darkness to sleep near his parents Poseidon and Euryale, acclaiming him near the gramineous fields to paste him with explosive clay on the portfolio of such a smiling face drunk with Ionian wine, in precedence of the disemi nar by the new and expandable Duoverso, Vernarth was already on the last steps of the stairs similar to that of Florence in the Medicea Laurenziana as well said to feel alive when going to paradise next to the Messiah who came to pick him up. But at times electrifying residues would vanish over his field of vision in small beams or flashes, which would prevent him from moving forward to the last stirrups without looking back where all the Birthright was watching him for one last time.

Sitting on the edge of Andromeda, Zefian was waiting for him to meet him in his dark chamber, since the most intimate and primordial causality of his metaphysics emerged from the bases of the reason for all things that should exist, before everything was created and that it has never had pre-eminence as it is in this case of the parasitic chamber of Zefian in the company of the Auriga, which also came to wait for him in the calash running wild as prescribed by the Duoverse in the structures of luminosity in the midst of this colossal inter-planetary chamber, between molecular agitated points that will venture through the axon of infinity longitudinally unpredictable for light-years even though it is so. The thermal outcomes of superheated remnants over the entire luminosity will speak of the catastrophe, and of the inherent emptiness in the eyes of the eternal hothouse very close to the supernovae that can only strengthen the fusion of the space disks of the Universe-Duoverse long before the explosion between Orion and Andromeda. The axes of time will be dislocated between both astral components in this dissonant chaos that will contract with Vernarth's levitation whenever he has stepped on the last step before entering the Hydor chamber in every dark portion of the Universe, making both constellations the ferrule or ring that will yield to the underbelly of Betelgeuse, dispossessing the boasts of the appropriate Commander Hetairoi of his Lynothorax to resist the ravages and turbulence of the Apokálypsis, which brought the immense loads of matter that discharged all its constant energy through the circulating nuclear power plants, and tangents that caused galaxy changes pierced by Hetairoi Aorion clods satirizing expenses for retracting the galaxies below Soldier's precept and super homeostatic mass attracted from their distance on astronomical scales of 2.5 million light-years.

The galactogenic galaxy made use of great prominences that would cover the greater proportional that is outlined in Andromeda of the strands of the Universe adjacent to the spiral that rolls on the underbelly, deferring to telescope sections, and the gravitational field to execute its nocturnal translation like the Hyperdisis Galaxy that collects the bubbling of the belt in conjunctions of minor stars making star mechanics by exaltation, and magnetic disorders creating other leading atmospheres in those detached from the cord of Andromeda, the Milky Way, and Orion. Vernarth was still holding on to the transparent hand of the Messiah while he was climbing the ascension steps to Hydor that would transport him to travel with him through the globular clusters, they will form the perfect delay in transfusing the lineage and not another, in this way the Lynothorax or bleeding pectoral de Vernarth continued to flow from this polynomial tractatum between all area subjugation guidelines, and refinement of the sagittal profile of Hyperdisis in the inter-galactic reversible staked Duoverse.

Lenticular to irregular above the nails of the trapezoid, it spread towards Aurion's right armband, sequentially making the centric radiogram hiccup, despite taking advantage of interstellar matter to self-generate its own transmission light, this made it refrain from emanating the hybridity that came out of its body by vibrating above everything that expelled from its center towards the right rectitude of Orion, thus making the multiplied speed of containing itself of both parts of the null hemisphere of its free will when verifying that it never existed, that it was only an illusion of doubtful matter that would soon Go away like gasified water on the galactic repulsions that would settle on Patmos as devotions of Skalá, and Astro-omegas that would be adhered to the Xiphos and Kopis, who were still united to their being rather in the contour of the perimeter of his soul two meters floating like invisible quantum universes. The totality of everything was inciting the fields of omega-stars that would begin to advance after becoming visible from the spur of the sword that became denser with the viscosity of the Hebrew Adom, which trickled from Orion to Hellenic lands as an Omega age for Vernarth which is conceived early when it carries Hecate's Kleidia or keys to the Omega world towards the proto-galaxies that provide ultramarine loaves, knowing that the Milky Way and Andromeda come so close in their stellar mass that they can collide in a few million light-years. The Duoverse of Hyperdisis was predicted in the visual reality of a fusion of change to interact with each other as it dismembered but re-transformed into the new theoretical core of the Duoverse as a large Black Hole embedded in the center of Patmos. In such a way all the inhabitants began to worry when phenomenal masses of warm air that began to take on the appearance of the Universe plagiarized each other generating incoming earthquakes, not affecting the Opistodomos or the Primogeniture, nor the crowd that was waiting. of all the monstrosity of monks who were grouped kneeling on the top of the Profitis, floating the shattered shaggy skein parts of the Himation. As it was dyed in the albi-color of Calígine, demonstrating the darkness of the intrinsic terror of whoever plows later to free all the succumbed who fell throughout Greece and Judah, exposing all the origins of appearance from the internal now in the converted Universe that was reimplanting itself in the helical of polarity, and bifurcating by pretexting all the reincarnations and polishing the stagnant cessation of darkness towards a luminance that could warn them and observe where their feet could move, sheltered from the monumental litter of calorimetry, and chromatics that was linked in romances trivial with the residuals of the angel shark galaxies where Aurion's progenies will deliver in candelas per square meter: LV waking is the luminance, measured in Nits or candelas per square meter (cd/m²).

• F is the luminous flux, in lumens for the Andromeda triad, the Milky Way, and Hyperdisis in conjunction with Orion. From here Vernarth will supply all of them as the one who will dwell in it in the preface of his Fables of Calígine with the following: "Ex Calígine Chaos: ex Chao et Calígine, Nox, Dies, Erebus, Aether", which transliterated means "Of Darkness: Chaos. From Chaos and Darkness: Night, Day, Erebus, and Ether", Decreeing the (Burning Darkness) before Chaos as flow F, is he also the only one who divinized this abstraction, conferring a proper meaning to the word. And then make of the normality of dwelling in the darkness that is the irrevocable opulence of the desire to maintain the radiance of all the forces that devour eternity. From the remote aces came dark families of flying Lepidoptera Ditrisios, lined up with countless other species that carried dimensional eyes that will be devoured by ocelli or giant eyes that come from the chaos of Vernarth's Caligine to appease the effects of ultraviolet rays, which started from the Nimbus Iridescent creating a layer of protection between the new dimension of the twilight of flight that was already beginning to ignite from the Aurion's scaly fingers.

• dS is the surface element considered the triad Kímolos, Rodas and Patmos. While Vernarth is distracted, he manages to dissipate the twilight of the inverted Erebus between Eleos and Ezis, personifying Clemency and Sadness, where they border the worlds that are not yet riddled with chaos or Calígine, who exalted himself over Erebos with the redemption of Eleos, who was getting ready to swallow the sadness of Ezis. Therefore Kimolos, Rhodes, and Patmos will consolidate their hegemony of unalterable lands where Eleos' piece of clemency will bring the support that makes Ezis's faceless portent, close to the hybridity of the Itheoi gods, in the Transversal Valleys of the Horcondising, with the Norns and generosity of Apollo who had given them after long stays in Hyperborea as female spirits once again as advocacy and imperishable protection of the legacy of Smintheus's travels by providing the company of Dísir, Uror, Verdandi, and Skuld as a female entity, of the past, current and future that should occur by order of Skuld. This will allow the three to unite with the Ds to merge the three as a complement of three female entities that will safeguard all climate change on future disasters in the Dodecanese.

• dΩ is the solid angle element, from Vernarth Omega and the origin of the Duoverse. From this premise, the worst of Vernarth's fears was to let go of the Messiah's hand and fall into the anger that blushes even Hetairoi Hero from Deimos, when the night reverts to the rest of the demons and the night adopts those who go perceiving in Vernarth that perhaps he was holding hands with Ares for the battle alongside his brother Etrestles, under the orders of the savagery of the metaphysical engines of panic. From this vision, Vernarth manages to open his eyes with the desire to show those who were watching him and to be able to show that he was aware of being a prisoner of his emotions and escaping from himself in the illustrious suffering of thousands of arrows, which ran around him like fleeting meteorites to the flat field of Tisiphone's revenge. The luminances became and became colors that were molecularly twinned with disparate tones that were capable of differentiating them, and at the same time nullifying the power of obscuring Vernarth's countenance to take his right hand and take the arrow to break the darkness that was lunged at him.

• θ is the angle between the diameter from Andromeda and the Milky Way (2.5 million light-years), Nemesis or Ramnusia as the retributive coercion of disobedience, being aware Vernarth became more and more of a being adopted by balance Nemesis for balance to command him to his senses before entering the field of limpidity of his soul in transit to liberate himself from all the chained who used to be happy, but sad that no one acclaimed them except Aionius Itheoi of Vernarth who translated the messages that from now on will move diametrically from Andromeda to the Milky Way, without any of these two portions being invaded only under the order of Nemesis, and Vernarth abiding by the retributive justice of The luminance that can be defined from the radiometric magnitude of the radiance without more than weighting each length of the wave by the sensitivity curve of the eye. Thus, if LV is the luminance, Lλ represents the spectral radiance and V (λ) symbolizes the sensitivity curve of Vernarth's eye in the underbelly of Betelgeuse, spilling plasma and magnetic bruises on the galaxies and Eyes of Orion.
Meanwhile, it manifested itself as a personal universe, not excluded from time and space for a metaphysical causality that will not be able to compose the mentality that is measurable in the joint senses of a Zig Zag birth from this same calígine emerging from another creature of self-observation and see the physiognomy of the anti-material and mass Universal Horcondising. From which we pre-exist to waste of science that models the system of energy and matter in causes of ancestors with which his life and ours that were propelled furtively. Gravity made great paternity in Vernarth's active Biomass, being in the Dodecanese and cosmos in the verification of curvature that makes us with the moon of its romantic astrophysical swings and exaggerated geometry of a Zigzag.

We are versatile multi-dynamic mass that expands simultaneously in the void that pauses in the Nothofagus Obliqua of Vernarth's Horcondising, and also of time2-space2 that have not been attributed to the origin of the stars that move irregularly in Zig Zag, for their immature componential that is clearly of Aramaic blue light from the Pealim of the Abba, circulating with bullets movements skimming the air of the grasses attracting the attention of the entire order of the hypnotized universe, making appear before them the duplication of the universe itself; in Duoverse, which is the recently shaken Universe and of gratitude in the distribution of nearby galaxies that are keys to the paleo kosmous already arranged in macro waves, which are percentages of the spaces of the Tri-solated energy fields, which interact with the phylogeny of the Mashiach in Gethsemane, lying now in a stagnant decomposed future, in a frozen present specific to the peri Kosmous. Its final station is to wager the Zig Zag Universe on the temporal middle Ages chrestomathies re-expanding in qualities of gregarious Sub-mythology, already settling here in Archangels to activate. The implosion of gravity has procreated worlds of visibility of magnanimous astronomical longings, in some fractions of time in Zig Zag by millions of fractioned light-years, as an irregularity that resembles the measure of everything quantifiable, being omniscience or not acquiring the hexagonal of the primogeniture of the fragment since Jerusalem goes to Bethlehem, where the Davidian prism whose Original is attributed fractal in form.

The personification of longevity was trapped by Geras, always escaping from the obfuscated universe or temperament that could be represented in humanity that relied on the antigens that served as support for the reversibility of every hero like Vernarth, who tried to glorify himself in the fullness of life in Heraklion or in the sand that was dyed red-azure when the soul of Alexander the Great would rise together with Vernarth with the Mashiach. The fractal beating line of the Mediterranean towards a vein resembling the rhinestones of King David to the Ziziphus of the Messiah simulating to be irregular symmetrical formats, to build gems in thorns of landscapes that basically subdivide into similar conical funnels, to then be randomly displaced towards its central point shared with King David's five o'clock Incorruptible crown, recursively reiterating it in each square until the eminence of the desired detail was reached in the curve that joins the landscape to Bethlehem and then to the Baptistery of the Shepherds in its hexagonal base, figuring to be the sleet in the final Crown of Rejoicing falling on the top of the roofs "Doroteo or theological gifts" in which the Mashiach's stable of Kafersuseh burst and agonized in the abstraction of the One-Dimensional Beams with foreign eyes, and own tissue eroding to mortal frowns that can be seen with their divine eyes in our own likeness, and of the planet n failed to increase the size so unknown and analytical in this peripeteia of the implosive ideology of the bubbling of the Verthian Duoverse.
The nature of the snowflakes in Bethlehem are natural fractals detailed in their nature, and in the natural infinity that here was envisioned from the new privileged world for self-similarity in speculative functions of Vertnarth, by intervals in each space of shadowy fences, bringing accelerated courier bulbs from Gethsemane in intermediates of olive trees transformed towards other humans.“Their correlation is infinite with reversible observable time, and paternal belonging to mobile gagged echoes of a space that is obstructed by Vernarth, in such a monograph and integers among the fractional integers "Finite is the curvature between the path that walks through the thickness of the Duo-Universe as an alternative of Zigzag and Duoverse energy, which is unleashed to our subconscious observable orb, and what a great beacon reflecting eye that ignores and prescribes extreme distant and focal parts of the One Dimensional Beams of Kafersuseh in Ein Karem. The Duoverse is the rehearsal Universe that the Mashiach had before coming to the Holy Land, provided by his form of Hyperdisis escorting him from Betelgeuse Orion, changes of arduous colors in gradient and Avant-Garde, for limits of perspectives and verbally of amendments of physical fields framed by an external gravitational means. The macro waves are exposed to matters not contained in the abrupt changes of the Mashiach optical selection with the One-Dimensional Beams, attracting selection crystals to atomize them in reaction disturbances, and recreation of multiform plasma saviors of Christian astronautics, examining the double of the macro waves and equation of them on the axis of the universe converted into Duoverse, already in millions of light-years, they will continue in the Duoverse, to reconvert from ectoplasm with large margins of assertiveness. Cartography is the error correction of the current universe, getting lost in the second thousandths of figures that separate us from the Universe, but all being more than time…!, remaining at the expense of the wick of the Cirio with all its electro-matter” Having already established the sub-mythology, Hestia appears after having slept a great dream, when she appeared before Vernarth in Tsambika she was seen changing size, when she was six meters away she looked tiny and when she was already two meters away from him It looked monumentally enormous, but with a versatile physiognomy, therefore it was already appreciated in the last steps with its domestic figure of a goddess that emanated light-years disserted by chimneys and its rooms. The critique of immanence that would happen, would pre-exist the perfectible plan for the Zig Zag Universe and Hyperdisis as Hyper-Hestia, bringing torn words for those who were approaching the main altar of the Vas Auric, which consisted of the great ratio of the proscenium in the Teodora vicinity of Tsambika, between Clairvoyance/Judgment for Wisdom/Meditating constant mechanisms according to the cosmological constant, leading perhaps to the beginning of a decade and third universe called the Triverse. The oscillation of all these fantasies was observed by Vernarth, but he knew that he would have to collide with this finally, already precipitated by temperatures that acted on the average of the normal range, therefore it was imminent to mutate him into the proselytizing provisional Duoverse, which moves backward between the lights vertiginous of creation. Immediately afterward, the Universe has torn apart and lost among those around him, establishing units of millions of years of compressed light from the piccolo Aulós, which Hestia carried in one of his pale hands, his prytaneion was lighting up with the flames of the heart of fire and passion of consanguineous love, "Prytaneum", paving the light in the clarity of the faith of the owners of farmhouses that were founded when they arrived in Tsambika in search of the Vas Auric, acclaiming with the omphalos stone that marked the navel of the world with defiance wandering to the island of Delos in the daily warmth of a spring afternoon in Rhodes. She is a woman with veils over her face always walking to and from her home unscathed in the house of foolish or vestal virgins, there is no Hestia, only perhaps there are some similar ones who were staying in the cold fire of her climacteric losing fertility after his father swallowed them, and then they were expelled from himself regurgitated in flaming matches from a blessed house full of indemnity, giving the Duoverse another category calculated with angles never contained vibratingly sliding between distances that discount minutes of Hestian space for such a corollary of approaching to its finitude and inaugurate the sub-finite,  which will never be a source of terminus in a disconcerting end of time not finished flush with the physical equation. “This consolidates the Duoverse in Duouniverse, expressed in figures that moderate the length of a physical state before it is consummated and restarted in a process that does not end (sub-infinite).

Vernarth was a few meters from entering the Nimbus, when suddenly his soul darkened and his panic flared..., suddenly he felt a scream from above and below he saw how everything was made of rubble. Courage blinded him, not wanting to observe what the evident end of the world and rubble intended to consume him if he said goodbye to his most beloved beings, until the lines of infinity approached those of the earthly world, intending to eliminate all traces of his family lineage. In this way, he begins to run through his hands the reflected Hydor of colors that pierced the skylight of austere words. He manages to see Calígine del Apokálypsis farther from the mist, detached from all gravitational force, only being able to see his mother among the smoke, who was coming up by a ray of light, Vernarth tries to free her from that moment of expiration but does not reach the synchrony of catastrophe in what pretended to be from the hand of Eris as the disagreement that did not allow him to put his survival weapons in order, believing that this instance would not allow him to ****** her from the goddess Eris, if he could believe that it was inevitable that his mother Luccica became a granite coat of arms, after the dark night that threatened to unravel her from her flimsy solid state, and then crumble to the ground turned into the ground that was crushed from roots that postponed it to be consumed by the gift of the light of life, and end of a light that is visible in all the roots of the earth when consumed by the infinite that vanishes in the existence of all being.

Vernarth, when a moment of clarity allows him to see his mother, tries to rescue her, realizing that his father Bernardolipo was with her, between them they would try to redeem them from the spread of Nix and Calígine, who behaved with great pain by mocking the edges of the Ether that they received Crono, they could not be victorious in arriving in time to rescue them, if from the harmony of a troubadour of the Mashiaj he observed him see if he would return with him to enter. They became visible in their parents as they contended before an avoidable awareness of this indivisible event with the aggressor words of hindrances and generations of millennials who anticipated the omega of everything in the lower part, under the feet of their parents appearing insignificant one (w) that precedes and succeeds the beginning of a beginning based on the end of a beginning a thousand times more than a threshold based on hundreds, appropriate to the metric unit of the numeral Myríaz = ten thousand, three times more than the Falangists, one thousand less than the Peltasts and three thousand fewer than the horsemen, total thirty-seven thousand fewer than the fighting forces in Gaugamela out of a total of forty-seven thousand, under the myriads of the Myriaz of Phalangists undermined by their Xiphos in the area of the right calcaneus of each faithful man under his command before facing the Achaemenides. During this period, Vernarth took extreme steps to rescue them and stop the numbing effect of all organic matter, not being able to rescue them, only granting them in the image of each one when they began to turn stone from feet to head until the fragile solidification of their eyes. when for the last time, they looked at each other only making it clear that it was a belated rescue gesture. The omega was ineffable even beyond the omicron, being Omega and Micron in the warfare primer of initiation of its cause within the prophetic in all the necropolis of lowercase omega (ω), towards an Omega that reaffirmed the raised hand in Saint John the Apostle to rewrite the Apocalypse twice, having to be the same but with the voice of Vernarth commanding the ten thousand Phalangists that made up the intergenerational gaps, more than mimicked alien ancestors. In such an effect, as is known, the Duoverse opened the skylights with its sheathed pillars and with the strings of tetrachloride of chlorine in solid angles of Ω in what was Virgo institutionum/Aurion, an entity that interfered by projections and leaks that converged in the strut of the omphalos of his heavenly father dealing in frequency and bloodless of immortality, consisting of an auxiliary being towards the planes of subconscious reprogramming and perspective. With its arms raised in each claw, a sword raised to pierce the vanishing point between the spaces that were ascribed, under the solid projection from an observer that inhibits and limits the biomass in all the aqueous filter pastes and lumens, towards the throne of the angelic guardian of Avant-guard by stereotype and sclerosis of Zeus of dissociated physicality, still being an amorphous entity with magnitudes pulverized between numerosities of Pi and Aureos, fading without area or volume.

Saint Jerome of Estridón: “Vernarth, I come from Bethlehem to help your life because I have detected the subsuming of the chains where your parents made the alliance from where your life has been erected from Sudpichi, Transversal Valleys in the temple that bears my pseudonym. The only rune that will determine that your parents can remain united, is through the action and direction that has been consecrated to me. No dead language will unsay what a dead soul cannot interpret. Our Mashiaj has entrusted me to free the languages that have conspired at night, and low luminance where Calígine has been uncomfortable seeing me knowing that it is my favorite environment, the memory of the chains want to incarnate in the stones that surround your parents, but  they are typical of a response that I will get to conclude by urging your mother and father to recognize that here they made the alliances, ordering, and reconciliation of your world that concerns us all in endless dictates to be agreed, I know very well that the point has not of allowing your atonement to have been prevented by this cosmological affront, here are the transverse Valleys in the favorite place of the Spirits lie the treaties that will move my greatest interest to re-marry your parents from the true chains of the complacent scholar, thus all the vastness that afflicts you will belong to your servant Jerome”

Vernarth replies: “At your service, his majesty, here I have been since dawn arriving at the town to meet them when they contracted their marriage. I know I shouldn't be here, rather I know that decades of inquiry had planned it that way. Of such conviction that their chains were anointed from the heights of the Kanthillana whose partiality emits the partials close to your direction? As is known, my very extensive walk through these dusty paths must recognize that the personality and nobility of its burial mounds will strengthen my presence so that everything that is incomprehensible if it is brief by making it neighbor to my reason”

Saint Jerome of Estridón: “everything has been planned like this, and as time drags on I know that your wounds burn in my epistolary like Latin and Greek voices that reluctantly direct me to your aid. Everything is beautifully comparable, and first to what should not be said..., but to do to the genre that above all it practices, the second to one of the ways with the above all that it practices "
By the reverse of the expletive to the insurmountable destiny, Vernarth takes his hands and Saint Jerome withdraws them telling him that it was not time for greater vain for the equivalence of minor desires to please him if he had not appeared before him. It shows him to celebrate him and to want to make of him the permutation of his golden polysemy or interpretation of the world's Apokálypsis by not changing his axis of change, by redirecting them to stated comfort interests. Namely; the leaders of the world in their world of annulled freedom of will to practice following as they please when interpreting the Apokálypsis only as a revelation, and not as a destiny that exalts the senses and compensation that will reconquer the consistency of the nature of the Apokálypsis that adheres to humanity as golden that will consolidate humanity fearful of its own ******* and excess of greed, just as it was just a few steps before entering the Temple of San Jerónimo in Alhué hand in hand with Vernarth already fully healed of his Lynothorax pectoral. They go to the ambo and Saint Jerome essentially takes out of his pockets chaff that was from the escape of the mass of stone that had not yet finally hardened, allowing them to generate a mystical sermon so that their parents return to the nave of the temple in person to surpass farther from the spring of awakening of the Kantillana requesting the unification of the ashes of his father Bernardolipo and Vernarth, to rescue his mother from a poor abundance, and is transposed by the metaphor of the life-giving spirit. Immediately afterward, Saint Jerome pours the chaff of his parents all over the surface, a great noise is produced, the doors and windows of the temple are suddenly closed, and his parents can be seen walking along the central row of the nave, where fiction could testify that everything was a fantasy, rather a great testament that would exhibit the union of two juxtaposed flanks prior to an invaluable crossing of smiles and flowers that fell from the upper altar on their crowns, they came holding their arms like open borders with the procedure before the harsh reality of a metaphor made real in the future of two beloved shepherds who crossed the limbo of their fingers, with the ferrule or the act of engendering rings of family procreation. The crosses of Lisbon and Saint Jerome resembled the monograph in beats of her wealthy feet that were consistent with the nubile gesture of her lips and then released with all frenzy towards the meeting of her beloved Vernarth, the three of them dancing together on the central pinnacle of the obese light that sheltered them, meaning from the testamentary Hebrew the Aleph on the way to Sudpichi after the Raphaca “Healing” ceremony until the diastole that adheres between the middle of the gap that was produced when the three confronted each other and the word “Heth” again He was bent over to take them like gigantic camels to meet his relatives and ghosts that surrounded him when observing the heights of Kanthillana at the assent of all this.

Because of all this similarity, the tribulation from Patmos was raging with very strong resistance, leaving totally clear of the conditionals of the flint or flint, which enveloped the parents, began to fade from their bodies while it was recomposed of seven elemental forms in relation to the transcription and identification of the three as a family trunk enormously of its exegetical possibilities. Tangent to the transcription, and if it is the case identification of the names that we stick to reunion and redemption of their parents, like all anthropology that was chained to the figures and characters that cordoned off the top of the temple when the three met they hugged and held hands as a sign of illustrative demonstrations of never surpassing oneself. Beginning with the compensations in the fullness of the tables, and completion of all the facts that showed that nothing of language escapes what an eye can observe; that is to say, as long as there is a speaking light, it will always be necessary to listen and then observe in the presentation of the mechanics by the lines that expressed the figures, which were increasing the number of letters that were possible to decipher; called stichometry or measurement of the lines in the texts that Saint Jerome that they were ordering to order a vade mecum or memorandum of this unbridled situation, which in any case had to simplify it whenever it is indicated for the reading of three beings that would meet in what literal of four spirits articulated in the continuum, in such a way that Vernarth added his bilocation to this symmetrical experience to meet again with the Mashiach who awaits him on the third step before entering the Iridescent Nimbus.

His parents will be the co-princes gathered on the Supichi road bound for the Horcondising, where Vernarth all Austral Winter Solstices will come to ask his parents for an audience in the Kanthillana Heights where they will summarize the exact day, that everything happened from a Thursday to a Sunday in the first hour of the most certain Saturday in which the twelve unnatural candles will be incorporated into the Duoverse from the branch of the Raedus Codex, specifically from the Antiphon that accompanies them to the compromised one, and sinuous height that was misted by the mist of snow, and vehemence that was perceived in the greatest regulars of Spílaiaus, having a ring of lights as if such were a gesture of Jerome and everything that was named in the concordance that could be confusion that slipped from the metaphysics of new space by beginning. From such a root emerges the Eta or value number and Vernarth symbolized as  N times from "8" to the entire value of the figure of 800 "w" or Omega, which will be the values of figures and numbers to predispose the alternation of the visits that will take place. to have with his precursors each Solstice, after alternating with the Elves of Archimedes, and to cross with them the manifestations that made him lighter than air, as could be expected before the imposition of everything that he imagined to sleep to the badly gestated world that had been altered, even with a remote Faith that symbolized the decisions of Saint John the Apostle by disposing of the salvages of the vestiges that had been destroyed in the physiognomy of a cause that proved more eloquent than a mere revelation that was never believed which would awaken from its very Semitic superlative. In this case, the allegory surpassed the prototype of all curly visual language that emanated from Vernarth's decision for the humanity that needed him, on the one hand, Saint Jerome already resolved, and Saint John the Apostle in the division of two events of the same story that It was melting into the complexity that would be unspeakable for two Saints in the middle of Vernarth, demonstrating that he had taken them with all the power of the force that is capable of pulling and manipulating until arriving at the darkness of the senses where all understanding and reasoning fall asleep. only allowing the silence to take them in the ellipsis recently emanated by the Nothofagus that were walking on the flaccid snow, the three went with graces of faith and satisfaction, Saint Jerome escorted them with everything healthy that made the incomparable awakening of two latitudes explode who managed to revive in invisibility, after resisting the latent verbigrace of the Apokálypsis that showed that the incomparable topic denoted the ma Greater resistance to everything destructive and Omega with the only subjection that only the verb "Love" does. They reached the icy and stinking gases similar to what Santa Rita de Casia emanated, which at the same time would be dividing breakers like those declared by the Corinthians about the Israelites when they were blinded by the radiance of Moses. The same would happen in the veil of little snow that was left behind his last steps when everything was white as a growing incident that would be attached at once to Patmos and Sudpichi, as well as Kanthillana and Olympo. He says goodbye to his parents and they carry their impulsive agreements to meet on the next Solstice together with Saint Jerome and Spilaiaus on the plateau.
Genesí of  Apokalypsis
Alicia D Clarke Aug 2012
She preserves her horrors in her bones
every detail carelessly engraved into her structure
every bump along the way creating a signature braille of her history
a silent story told by the curvature in her body
a girl crying on the inside
wheels of fake smiles and emotions move her
she is a mere puppet to a life she cannot control
the scars are too deep
she is too broken
she cannot tell her story
silenced by horror
her bones narrate.
Brent Kincaid Aug 2015
He always wanted to be a ballerina
To dance so dainty up on his toes.
But everyone could see under his tutu
And the bump they saw was not his nose.
He had the talent and the perfect figure
To perform the balletic steps just right.
There was no way he could ever manage
To keep that ample package out of sight.

Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.

His skin was smooth just like a swaddling baby
There was no concern about flat *******.
Many ballerinas are rather mannish
With not much curvature to their chests.
So he could pass completely undetected
Androgyny was his great good friend
But any moment when he swirled about
Tutu would lift and then spell the spell would end.

Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.

He never really loved the danseur posture
The holds and lifts and hearty leaps about.
But in the world of ballet and its leaders
Ballerina guys are always left out.
Still he danced in tutu at auditions.
He heard the comments, paid them no mind.
If they could not see grandly male Pavlova
That meant that all of them were blind.

Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
for a heart's worth of stone,
will the mind
hardly succumb to
the sponge...
             easily ingested,
yet hardly
          perforated
to give off a worth
of a translation...

                         let alone,
        a chance to print less money,
and more,
postage stamps..
               my heart to no mind
belongs, even if it's the crucible
of my own...
                 the mind goes one way,
the heart, another,
    and by death,
in pristine inversion,
relocated to their former
bearing...

              the heart begins to speak
for the mind,
   and the mind:
"forgets" to speak for the heart...

   my worst "fear" of death,
is that...
   it will never be the akin justification
for taking repose,
   for sleeping...
how,
   somehow death will
                transcend sleep...
and i will be forced into...
        dignifying,
or undignifying dogmas,
based upon the whims from
a dream...
   conjuring...

                    i can stomach
a forever-slumber,
    when it comes to death...
but to have to put up
with...
           fears of dream
being realized?
             cats don't sleep
during the night,
they pretend to,
            you can pass one by,
and he or she is: "snoozing",
with eyes half-open...

                     peering at shadows
of shadows in the daft night,
then...
   also...
                  prying on
the eternal silence of man's
rested set of comforted body
to bid him and his fellow:
a good night...

             audacious, some will meow
akin to the sparrows come morn,
but between the 11pm and the 4pm
mark?
     the house falls silent...
a drunk shuffles...
     itching to tattoo his fingertips
with texture of the wallpaper...
a cat sleeps...

                    i can almost always,
find myself,
   ascribed to a haunting,
           like the atypical english
out-suburb house...
  a house, whereby the natives
care so much for a garden...
but then actually use it...

             glued to their "castle"...
bonsai felines...
ever notice, that they have
eyes, akin to reptiles?
       large cats have mammal
eyes..
   when their pupils constrict,
they are not akin
to their bonsai counterparts,
i.e. reptilian slits?

                   i sense there's a spy...
what was once a serpent,
became a bonsai tiger,
a cat...
    when these felines
are bound to rest
i almost alway find them suspect...

         pandemonium spies...
i never allow myself
to be comfortable in
the presence of a cat,
                spy of: beelzebub,
spie of moloch...
  and the whole milton litany
of names...

               i don't trust them,
they're mammals...
but they have reptilian eyes...
esp. when the pupil slits
appear...
   a normal mammal would
have the same shaped
     pupil dilation and constriction,
like a lion...
but little bonsai tiger over here?

            venus in furs...
reptile in fur...
             i think the dinosaurs did a sly
one on us, when we arrived
with the capacity to breed these
bonsais...
                
         you'll still find the cool kids,
"petting" / more or less: keeping
snakes, lizards, chamaleons,
      spiders...
        i honestly don't think cats
are that much different...
             were you ever fed a deception,
so good,
that you, "somehow",
began questioning the authenticity,
after many years of
convincing yourself it was "true"?

        a cat, a bonsai tiger,
is about as much mammal...
    as i'm a ******* cyborg right not...
it's a reptile, in a mammalian
disguise...
   a bonsai doesn't behave
like a mammal...
     not even a mammal...
that hasn't been domesticated...
esp. a mammal that was been
quasi-domesticated,
    for the worth of cow,
or pig...
             or horse...
                        sly little *******...

i'm suspicious of cats,
and the cats i "own" are suspicious
of me...
       they're nothing more
than a dinosaur remnant of a spine
and a brain in a pickle jar
of lost eye-lids (snakes)...
  with a taste for fashion,
furs, masochism...
                
           cats are deceptive...
looking at their eyes...
they're ******* reptiles!
                        that and the birds...
pseudo-mammals...
                reproducing via
the aid of the reptile egg...

         hell... sure... "it's all about
the bees and the birds"...
more like it being about
the cats and the birds...

    why else wouldn't a reptile fake
"being afraid" / or seek to find a mammalian
reply for: endearing?
  than expand their slit eyes...
into a fully dilated pupil?
           as a mammal...
my pupil either contracts
or expands... it's either
                                    o or O...
a cat's eye?
                        O or ()
    and that's still stating a "compliment"
with the () curvature of the slit...
       that's not how a mammal's
eye should behave...
   fur,
    and as much does for birds...
also with fur, but no female womb,
instead a plot of egg
                    and greedy omelette...

    sure sure, i could have owned
a snake, if a wanted,
    or a tarantula...
   but cats just freaked me out
to begin with...
   that whole fur bit of *******
is an act of subversion...

               as is the whole bird:
feed me a budgerigar clock...
   because the whole beak...
was never going to be akin
                                  to a horse's hoof...

cats, when they're faking it,
turn all O puerile with their pupils...
but then they revert back
into their reptile calculating
demure of the slit ()
                                pupils.

big cat,
                 elephant, dog,
the eye dynamic is either
from o to O or from O to o,
to conscript their allowance
for the traffic of light...
    once again...
      whatever categorical divisions
we have constructed
to process information?

               to me,
cats are the old fashioned
fabble of a hushed variant
of chimera.
Softly Spoken Oct 2018
As the air thins you are called to memory
I am as yet
Unsure of what relationship exists
Between the flitting nimbus and velocity
And me
Perhaps the times I fell away from the earth
Skirting through layers of atmosphere
Between the curvature of horizons
And a past sunset far behind me
I left traces of longing In contrails
I left vapour trails of emotion in the sky
Understandably you are filtered from my gravity restricted musings
With feet on Terra Firma; no contrail exists
Only here with vermillion slashing the clouds
Carving a wake through air so fast sounds can’t catch me
Do I remember how I howled
Kewayne Wadley Dec 2021
While the world is asleep
I lie awake in a dream that feels real
because I am with you.
They'll lie still and we won't disturb
them.
It's you that I only get this feeling
around.
I accept that I am awake because you
are here
There is no other fact.
While the world is asleep
I want to explore everything that I can.
Without interruption.
Without the triple bypass of work.
More than enjoying your company for
what it is.
Like croissants in Paris
After climbing the Eiffel tower with you
on my back.
Or counting how long it'll take to bend
the curvature of the tower into the
shape of your heart.
While the world is asleep
They'll lie still and we won't disturb
them.
& When they awake,
They'll think it was all a dream
By the time we finish explaining what
took us so long to get back
James Tyler Jul 2013
I do not mean you as a metaphorical you, however "you" as in an undoubtable "you".
"You" may not see the panes it break. When "you" say my name my heart does wince with sweet, sweet soliloquy. When you hark my name, I turn away from the audience of strangers, and direct my speech unwavering toward "you". Now "you", with unwavering focus, hear my words back, ringing in "your" ear. "You" are the one. "You" my new-soul does love to hear speak. In silence "you" are a beautiful picture: with "your" hair long and brown, "your" eyes glowing green, "your" lips like pillows for my lips to dream. And when my dreams do meet their reality, "you" will fill my soul with sweet, sweet music.
Syllables leep and frolic off "your" tongue as children do play, in adolescent beauty and wonderment, in the fields of sping-time. They seem to adhere to "your" mind in both articulation and in reckless abandonment; they flow from "your" mouth like sweet, sweet sound in waves unbroken by thought (though I know "you" think before "you" speak).
Other me's may not hear the sounds that I do when "you" laugh, and giggle, and emote your beliefs. They may not believe me when I say I hear, no feel, "you", but if they would open their hearts, no minds, to true beauty I believe that they would, too, feel. Now I mean feel as in the most unbridled sense the senses can bare.
"Your" voice pangs on the strings of my heart's neck, the curvature of my being. It, "your" voice, still plays fluently in the drums of my ears; like a beautiful symphony "your" ways of speech. "Your" patterns they flow like notes on a staph. I will never know another human who can, through speech, evoke such emotion from I as "you".
I would give everything I owned to hear "your" voice play for hours, days, months, years; until "your" voice grew outdated and changed with the seasons. However, "your" voice will never grow outdated or change to me. It, "your" voice, will remain as beautiful as it was in its prime in my ears. Just to hear "your" chords play my name once more I would give it all. My heart longs to feel "you" again.
Meteo Jan 2015
Perhaps in some ancient Greek
philosophers' dream
we danced quadruped
clumsy and complete
interlocking narcissism
as celestial bodies skirt
the curvature of the earth
In some drag queen Diva's dream
Ode to Hedwig and the Angry Inch
Valerie Csorba Dec 2014
I am only pretty when I'm naked.

I did not give you permission to **** me inside of your head.
Please get your imaginative hands off of my unobtainable soul,
and close your mouth,
you're drooling like a coward when he sees something that he cannot have.
I belong to no one but myself.
I am old enough to know the rights of my body.

I am only pretty when I'm naked.

Stop recording every moment we will never have with your undistracted eyes.
I did not ask for this,
I am covered in clothes that do not accent the curvature of my frame and yet still you gawk,
and I will be asked what I was wearing that night.
I was wearing my right to say no,
but to him I was wearing my inferiority.

I am only pretty when I'm naked.

I am a female powerhouse.
I am competent with my tongue in many ways yet you ache to abuse it.
I am inclined to tell you what is best for me, but I am a woman.
And I know nothing.
You will beat it into me until I actually know something so well that I choke on it.

I am only pretty when I'm naked.

I am incapable of loving because, to you, I am not justified,
so you will show me how until I cannot breathe any longer.
The bruises and scars will taint my porcelain skin like mud on brand new sneakers,
except the black, blue, and crimson cannot be rinsed from my body
as easily as my clothes were removed by you.

I am only pretty when I'm dead.

— The End —