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Mhmd elHalwani Jan 2014
Creeping voices in the night
Shadows lurking out of sight
Haunt me till the morning's light
No sleeping for me tonight

Looking at my bedroom door
My feet barely touch the floor
Something whispers down my core
Something that I can't ignore

Melted candles in my hand
Things I would not understand
My hope slips away like sand
This was not what I had planned

Slowly walking down the stairs
Feel a breeze sweep through my hair
Shadows lurk; in silence stare
Naked thoughts are all I wear

Out of breath I walk outside
Shaking fear that builds inside
No more places left to hide
Guilty thoughts of mine collide

Drenched in coward's blood and fear
I lost those who I held dear
It's all blurred, nothing is clear
Shadows from my past appear

As the silence speaks to me
Gets too loud it deafens me
My past will not leave me be
Pain and torment I foresee

Dazed and drawn by these lost souls
Broken thoughts I can't control
Ghosts slip through this gaping hole
Darkness has taken its toll

From the darkness dreams come out
Nightmares flailing all about
Closing in, I hear them shout
It's the end, I have no doubt

"What the hell is it you want?"
They retreat and me they taunt
One emerges, tall and gaunt
"Your life we will no more haunt."

"You have paid for your wrongdoing,"
He tells me, his voice booming
"This is now your redeeming
You are free." he says smiling

I look at the rising sun
I no longer have to run
My sentence is served and done
*The ghosts have finally gone.
pluie d'été Apr 2014
You can't save me
With you smoke veiled eyes
Filled with honesty and deceit
Your words
Falling like the ocean
Deafens me
With their beauty
In silence
And it's not enough
Those lines
About me
In the tattered notebook
My initials
On your skin
Tattooed
And scarred
Like the rain in the sky
With echoes
Like thunder
Following the sobs
You hide behind your calloused hands
Can't you ever
Show me the lightening
Because that's the only thing
I need to see

And the thunder
From me
Is all you need to hear
But my lightening
Is what you get to see
And you think it's everything
But how can everything
Last only a second?
Julian Jul 2022
The ruddy ailments of the dirigisme are twirling with the shimmering tilt of photosynthesis as they gabble with the gabelle of internecine brackish synthesis that aims for rejoinder rather than maleficence. The glowering malice of combustible hatred invokes the brusque remontant immortelles of perceived compunction broadsided by the reluctant generativity of a benumbed time revived by the agitprop of coagulation that leads to thrombosis that spells the doom of the people that see the caesarapropism as the negligent century of destiny. Although I falter in these words because of a potvaliant mistake I glower with the hatred of combustible envy that turns malice sour into a recyclable engine to dethrone the orthopraxy that belies indoctrination because we are whittled into swords of deliverance rather than the caustic prevarications of the sharpened engines of authoritative bandied provocation. Defiance is measured in gingerly exercise rather than foothot hamshackles of the clepsammia of aggrandized composts of belittled judiciary entrapment that squanders the resourceful energy and transmutes it into hollow solidarity rather than hallowed paragons that vault justice inviolable to protect the dignity of life and the procession of apanage afforded by the isagoges of those denatured by agitprop into a fundamental solidarity with wizened decried vehement declarations that we will not be outmastered or outgeneraled by the militarization of truth to be an insipid lifeless vehicle dead on arrival because of the turgid turpitude of enamored throes of parturition that bespeak the garments of elucidation that all might find commonwealth in the common tribe against tribalism. The ardor of lurid fascination is a kinkativy taint on the scared acrimony of sacrilege benumbed into zealotry rather than vulcanized into a solidarity of the vocal information that refrains from transmogrified violence and exasperates the intellectual tongue into a flavenicker ultracrepidarian saunter above the bricolage of the flombricks extant that predicate the rijuice of defamation sejungible from articulate truth and loved enamored blinkered diatribes against the hubris of immediate threat becoming the bellow of dismissiveness rather than the agentic force of virulent brands of truth. The pickthanks that piggyback with declension in their hearts neglect the finessed euthenics of a civilization on the verge of ecumenical empowerment rather than radicalized rage leading nowhere but the terminus of mandarism and the ribald coarse wiseacres that litter the “abolish the police” protesters convinced lawlessness will remediate the state and stench of law and order as the news outskirted with inflammed protest neglects my sophrosyne declaration that inflammatory rhetoric has no place in a civilized society and we should fight the feldtrounds of sloganeered slavery to an upcoming servilism that pretends a kumbaya when it kneels upon the cogwheels of freedom in the silent asylum of the protectorate of democratic venom in a society eager to become acerbic because of one voiceless whimper rather than the regaled heroism of triumphant vocalization of our fundamental prerogatives that cross racial lines and invoke the superseded clairvoyance of the few becoming the impediment to the aristocratic purblind defalcation of immutable scriptures that bend only to divine rather than human inclination. A deft anarchism is always the weal of those that suborn chaos rather than see the sejugible nature of provocative promulgation as a fissile immaturity wakened only to apartheid when the sensational becomes the gravitas of the omphalos of consideration rather than the phenakism of a trite statism making a foudroyant point with pinpricks of agitation superseding the clarity of epincion waged in this upcoming regalia that masters the artistry rather than the artifice of modular concatenation enough to swivel the attentive focus beyond the mediagenic hyperbole that always festers because they perpend on a fidelity of duty to the chaotic mainstream ridicule of the rigmarole in place to prevent preventable disasters because stagecraft shouldn’t be the nail in the coffin of prejudice or even the more militant counterprejudice of those that awaken to the determination that discrimination not faulted by raciology or faulty phenogenesis is always curtailed but enforced by the diacopes of our subversive inclination to disown the promontory of lawful abiding prerogatives to extend the message beyond the ludic tantrums of the tantony of those seeking indelible imprints in the evanescent fabric of forgetting that promotes the oblivion of recent events as a shattered fable of invulnerable atrocity. The impetus of impotence because of the shepherds of the dignotions of aristocratic impertinence silence the gavel into its own dirigible asylum rather than enthroning the vociferation of vehemence to ordeal rather than simpered jostles in the rumpus of the crowded sentry of pother intermediated by the fumiducts of a crumpled toxicity wilting in mediagenic warbles of malcontent but never becoming captive to the riddles of the conundrums of a time that bends by its own honor to the truculence of majoritarian upheaval but never silence the vocal incontinence of generations upset by the deranged stature of a ragged houndstooth checkered hubris of those to partial causes rather than global specters. Lets force the outrage to an impartial stature that declares that candor is a venom that beats the imposture of glaikery that suborns nothing but the vacuous insemination of chaos to reign in the interregnum of a dutiful Republic to the clashes predevoted in time to express the ordeals of outrage rather than the tribulations of awakened reckoning not to neuter the prosodemic outrage but to channel it beyond the blinkered checkers of a ridibund pasquinade of the riotous petulance of a bereaved polity endeavoring to swamp the airwaves but forgetting that the gavel depends on the eccedentesiasts filtering through the siphon of their own agenda a culpable indemnity that slithers with awakened patrons of a novantique beyond division not to excoriate false actors and instead indict true treachery where it fathoms the gravity of its own sopiter that maybe the treacle of modernity evokes the motivation rather than a fickle finicky consternation because the whittled hatred of anathema belongs to those who seek to obrogate the untenable with virulent strains of the eventual carapace of designed cackles among those who feign outrage but seek nothing more than a perdurable confederacy that is milquetoast in its arraignments of truth by enthroning BLM above the more justified causes of universal ecumenical reformation of the enlightened claque to speak beyond the fumes of the voiceless in order to entrench a new virility responsive to the mercurial enmity of divisive fricative visionaries who seek only to disempower clairvoyant clarity rather than subsume the honesty of their stature to not politicize every convenience in weaponized form for the sacrilege of impediment. The diablerists eager to expurgate my knowledge from public repositories will stop at nothing to be diminutive with finicky perseverance to decimate my legacy because the spurts of mind control that hijack me into the morning are beyond my control because they are so powerful it is very easy to craft that mind control considering they monopolize my brain to make me irrelevant.
June 5th 2020 Writing 11:03 PM MST

The drazel caitiffs of doctrinaire aplomb in the wravel of expounded litanies of resurgent acrimony borne out of the ephemeral substantive wisp of the legionnaires of the sunblind heliosis of incidental arbitrage weaken their fettle as the weal of the wednongue becomes an indomitable craven creative force of the bulldozed halvork of ochlocratic vice becoming the melancholy of truculence that besieges all simultaneous fronts to be widely echoed in the polyacoustic cisterns of favored design that we might shield Acts 17:26 and bereave our call as shepherds of an enlightened flock only to make the petty satraps and popinjays they enlist the wagtails to a normative heterodoxy of inclusive ramshackle order sizzling in the fricative fictions of articulate design beyond the flombricks that plodge their way into the edifice of vixens that the hierodules elect in the olasin wave of embedded enchantments becoming  redominage in the artifice of inconvenience that is an aswallone of the enantiodromia of the farce becoming the gladiatorial eager spectacle of decline without subversion and elevation beyond the plaintive lugubrious dirge of the antagonism itself rather than the protagonist for the zalkengur of ripe rather than brusque ribald generativity for ingeminating gammon to swill the coffers of the elite girdle of gridlock blunted by the trauma of seeing the ventilation of etiolated choleric spates that conglomerate into wellsprings of viparious welter that sinks in abaddon because of the stultimathy of the rigid sclerotic design bending in the enforcement of normative stereotypes clamoring for neoliberal and neoconservative chantage above the flays of delamination that sputter with their graunchers that the frescades of summer dawn on the least of all creation rather than fulminating against the most brawny mutilation fathomed in the spectral tomes of a hidebound liturgy lost to the fractions of time that depart from the thrombosis of planned frogmarches into delirium rather than sanitized calls for enforced radicalization that entombs too many witeless brittle and centrobaric forces to contain within these pithy gibes against the hacked jackals foisting the forest above the treetops. The rijuice of jawboned jury-rigged nescience topples the emporium of rectiserial encouragement met by a sterling brute of arbitrary boschveldt coincidental to the ragged ragtaggers of a new age paltry parched apostasy against rivulets that profane the sacred cows and demarche rather than delope against the lurid spectacles that become emergent titans draped with a ludic empowerment that is so baseline that is only its own invidious demise as the crumple of femicide wreaks havoc upon the industrious layers of filigree busted through by the hacked logic of the axile sapwood that eventually the titanism of the scaldabanco will wheedle the society we depend on for sustenance to halvork into a renewal of creative verve and sizzle rather than a flamestun flavenicker remorse of all the petty inclinations suborned  by the lewd depredation of mind and numinous authority at the clawing vehemence of deposed rigid authoritarian welds on the canvass of a dehumanized populace clanging with insistence that the decried hearsay becomes the otiose rampart to an enunciated ploy of skullduggery biding in plain sight to make those that livid luxuries enchant blind to the ecphonesis of riches in generativity rather than follies in hindsight bias bludgergrumbles which fail to elicit even the snirtle of pigs that prowl the owleries and recede into the shadowy umbrage of a demiurge of insulted bravery that they must concede the deferred plansters to warspark that the dissgowl is too prevalent to mask the albatross of their covvenger plots to swivel against the retinue of the righteous cause above the frisky dalliance with politicized gammon. Acts 17:24-31 NIV
24 “The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands. 25 And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything. Rather, he himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else. 26 From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. 27 God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us. 28 ‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’[b] As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’[c]
29 “Therefore since we are God’s offspring, we should not think that the divine being is like gold or silver or stone—an image made by human design and skill. 30 In the past God overlooked such ignorance, but now he commands all people everywhere to repent. 31 For he has set a day when he will judge the world with justice by the man he has appointed. He has given proof of this to everyone by raising him from the dead.”
We are a churned tide of sopanaceous sultry broods infuriated by the feral clutches of the stultimathy of the clambered vipers enforcing the vespiary matrix of a womb we inhabit and cohere beyond numinous calculus or superlative counsel that we might too be called to engineer the future with imagination rather than regress into the pother of exasperation that denotes boundaries for the nations and elects the Titanic design of faultless logic superseded by the euhemerism of the futile cause banished by the barristers of recrimination by the criminals themselves that lawlessness reigns and factions among the factors that determine flaws fade into the alpenglow resistance of the galvanized deputies of enforceable doytins through the maskirovka of celebrities that scrimshank fundamental duty in order to shepherd the malevolence of causes beyond our own into their heyday of sneered scrutiny by those that possess the inclination to swerve away from manufacture and impose clarity rather than suborn fagins into the frogmarches of a radical racism reversed upon itself to condemn the source of agitprop as the vehicle to be trounced in design but never overtures to the planster economy rollicking in enthused flamestun vigor because of the trollops of a reclaimed destiny spawn a newer order of triumph rather than stench. The whinks of kisswonk warspark because they invent the flabbernounced regalia of an otiose whimper decrying a limited specter of scepsis as an enlarged totem and token to a petty tokenism of cordial respect tramples over the historic efforts of those that proceed in ceremony to tralleyripped accord swimming in vainglory to become the wallbaggers of retinoise rather than the arbitrary motions of a motatory justice configured for proper deliverance. The tiresome plastic consumerist treacle is devolved upon the spectral enemies of time that issues promulgation above the timeless as mere defeasible artifices whinking with the kisswonk of the allonker rather than the protagonism of thrusted impertinence to clangor upon the diseased noisy cacophony begging for more than a froward entreaty but a ridibund ridicule that lambastes the haranguetangs even as they writhe in contortions of largesse afforded by the henchmen of a defalcated statism bought by officialism of the licentiates lickerish in their malapert hypocrisy as they blaskerg at their complicity in the webbed design of fomented rickets of the rijuice of complexity. The heatwave of enthused disorder is a diseased artifact pounced upon by desiccated laments of prevarication that riddle the consternation of the awakened flock to the fact that the ravenous prowl above the seemliness of destiny is more integral to our warpspeed bushwhacking that needs to take place. The rigors of a sappy saccharine judiciary neutered wayspayed wesperm of profligate injustice is a humdinger invented by the sciamachies that became spectacles and the scepter of power shifted through the rudimentary siphons of a perceived moment of triumph when in fact the heterodyne retromorphosis of society is nothing but a sad vitriol flickering with vestigial promise even in alveolate protocol that simper with sidereal disarmament of intellect to spuddle through the bodged articles of a rigmarole beyond the delimited courses of the corsairs that teach the designation rather than own the polity. Despair is incongruent with the pangs of deliberative widened gazes at the celestial conformity to the wednongues of purposive violence that shatters the paradigms of peace by domestication of the sheltered animals of instinct that become an invictive stampede beyond the zoolatry that encages the swell of the crestfallen so they must always sink beneath the edifice rather than maneuver their way through the slinky potvaliance of the crimes never surmounted by rationale alone. The clench of grit is overstated but the radical riches of troves beyond contempt deserve an upbraided kempt spectrum of kenspeckel denouement rather than guarded finalism becoming an alley of escape for the podlecs who patrol the authority of law-abiding negligence. The whadronque primposition of the gavels of impetuous internment of exotic trangams that are suited habiliments to cloak the serpentine excesses of a saboteur of division inseminated in the flombricks of a flyndresque revitalization of the rudimentary gnomic apothegm that in sockdolagers of spirituel gift become an odium beyond reprisal because of the stultimathy of the tortivinity of the hackencrude revolt against prolific streams of steamy wisdom that emanate from God above but also the meddlesome inclinations of man to superimpose a cosmogony that defiles the protected and protects the cravens who submit to absolute anarchy or worse hyperarchy in a visionary attempt to trailblaze through the thickets of conundrum the best possible remonstrance against the alvantage of the farsighted announcement of a superlative strain of mettle above the finicky prestidigitation of an all-encompassed time that doesn’t genuflect to merely human traditions without a skeptical poise and pause above the frazzled contrition of the enervated tribes of belief. The trillops of the implucture that countermands my vocal denunciation of the mind control behind my steep fall from agracerie into the contemptible mud of the most opaque subversion manifest so callously and clearly among the litany of deeds done without conscientious objection that I might find myself groveling to stay above the orbit of the crambazzles as the senectitude of the septiferous frikmag enjoins further rebuke as they stay alacritous among the shibboleths they do possess because their hyped alimony is just an affront to decent justice in an indecent time. Madcap wallsongs to a squandered preeminence of intellectual titanism is a sad spate of the defecation of the vultures among the squabbles of braseros that try to disenchant me from my valorous integrity to God rather than the insipid provocateurs of a rankled craven and rancid injustice that teems with infestation beyond the curdacts of reasonable authority wielded by the henchmen of the state that needs a minatory reclamation of prowess rather than a muted mutiny against subversion itself. Mobilized by the inactivity of the dormant squirm against the wreggled mountebanks that think their derelict verdict of seedy boweries becoming the gerrymandered future of the voiceless meet the sternest reprisal in the courts of dalliance between the linear jaunty natatoriums of the futile thoughts of a disempowered alacrity to verberate the yobbery of those that superimpose disorder as a gimcrack for inane vapid provocations of insane decorum in a world whipsawed by the rankle of its own toxicity negligent about the futurition that depends on the stakes of justice rather than the cleavage of conquered cities becoming welcomed rather than fathomed and there exists a stark difference between the heralded contrition and the unsung liars who profess innocuous inoculation even when they brandish the seamstress of all dovetailed lies into a bricolage not meant to withstand even the vagaries of the uncial gains of months by the gainsay of critique which should be not a henpeck in these deplorable times but rather an epincion against the racism that festers into continual rot because the sophrosyne are impeded by the rijuice of preordination that swelters beyond all terminal diseases into a ragged moth-eaten swill of elitism. The hollowed but hallowed recourse of destiny rewards the guerdon of the long-lost patronage now disorderly in gammons to reprove the belittled taradiddles of rookery in a roodged society of roosters squawking with the simpered vitriol of agency against the marauding Viking spate of calculated diminutive crags of whittled dimensions unseen but clearly fathomed by denigrated alacrity that we might too find the paradise lurking at the end of abscess and abeyance that violently caves into the ploys of the modern ****** becoming a post-modern plea for justice rather than enervated senselessness. The lientery of abortive endeavors squabbles with the marauders who provoke the dismal glimmer of epigone rather than daunt the intrepid gauleiter with the showmanship of force beyond the demonstration of the impropriety of those stagekeepers who own the postcennium of kenspeckel macroscian hackumber that runs amok because it is neutered by the wesperm of the ingemination of futility into the mindset of conquest to bereave rather than provide well-earned fortune on the verdict of a day consummated by the squaloid vermin that scowl in protected hedges of secrecy without valor to trounce  the oppositive support for a vindicated but never finifugal society. What a debauched day where a private powerhouse of cryptadia can fossick through the thickets of sapwood and sentiment to usher in a pettifoggery known only to the brave soldiers who blare against opprobrium to the reconnaissance of departed flamestun gambits to entrench their ulterior command of a divisive spurt of econometric capitulation in catabasis rather than shepherding the valorous vigor of intrepid champions to outmaster the lingering resentments that boil into potboilers that renounce the truth only to a pickthank’s travail in overcoming the obstacles that bereave us because of a tigrine and rigid subversion of moralism in clairvoyance to become a turgid refuse of the offal of chattel lost in a frapplank with an otiose but revived assault on the precipice that cadges the lewdness of rumpus over the donnybrooks of donnism itself. The glamborge of the amporge that relegates all consideration in ransom to the truthful declaration of coarse sentiments from the clutches of an unrepentant evil that lurks shadowy and invulnerable as it cripples entire generations of thought into the messy vitriol of froward fomented officialism in malcontent over its own incompetency that I might meet and beat the rapknocks that thwart my eloquence and the privy internecine swivels of a newly minted prerogative to own autarky above the doytin of the aimless ridicule that swims in an ocean of debauched lies professed by the rigmarole of flickers of anointment fading below the scepter of righteous might that I might make more generations captive to the highest order of conation rather than the unwitting dupes of the ulterior sabotage of the elitism that seeks to expurgate history against the samizdat of maskirovka becoming evident that the benumbed stupefaction I now linger between and around will fade into a heightened stratosphere that renounces former sin and parades the righteous justice of novantique that learns from wayward profession the ability to navigate toe-to-toe with the throngs of oppositive saboteurs relinquishing any attempts at seamless order of the dovetailed might of the empowered conscience because their ******* enchantments are a vehicle for a depredation without rebuke and a sentimentalism that foments nothing but the worst fumiducts into the cadges that perdition permits but God exorcises because of people like Epenetus who survived with valor in Asia despite its hostility. I am dismantled by a juggernaut which is often repudiated for its thuggery and menacing dacoitage to make my thoughts seem like a philander with colposquinomia rather than the callisteias and kalons that effervesce into a remedial triumph in these lagging hours where my vigor is a vapid emanation of a withheld empathy becoming an entreaty to simplicity rather than a beacon of vaulted virtuosity that uses sheen to deplore the undercroft while surmounting the challenge to destroy the umbrageous evil of the camorra that lurks behind a curtailed curtain of infallible designs conflated by banausic pretense to curb rights rather than inform duties to apprise those rights as integral enough to swarm the grievances and belong to propriety rather than sink the sunken hidden  mainour of restive intellect above the fray and frazzle of meaningless absurd contrition that belongs to another century beyond my own foresight. The surgical emoluments of crafty duplicity attempt their forestalled delay of my charisma and duende to enrage the battalions rooting for the intellectual clutches of tentacles of revivalism to spark the flamestun of powerful admissions of guilt that they tremulously balk at the religious authority of magistrates because of the witted menace of the deliberate provocation of the worst most untimely sentiments to become cacoethes of a plucky reductionism that makes the puerile sempervirent rather than the ontocyclic countermanded by the periblebsis of flavor above the sultry vacuum of the listless entropy of an evil overhang of swandamos that skillfully delegate meted disaster to portend over the future bailiwick of my own behest craven by tribulation but emboldened by the humane interface that my heyday is among the future articles in the limelight rather than the irrelevance of glaikery to the tomfoolery of the captaincy of a conscience bereaved rather than a conscience reclaimed by the inferior bastions that sulk the crapehanger recruitment of all demented barks that recoil without civil exactitude at precise purpose perpendicular to my swank and emanating the forces of the benighted world upon the clairvoyance of the chosen virtues of a New Testament understanding that shelves Deuteronomistic Law as among the curtailed remonstrance of inefficacy belonging to a barbarous time where the incondite superseded the others by pomp and celebration alone that incense should be recensed against the termagants that wage war on the ridicule of revival.
Now that the brunt of the oppressor congeals his thickened plot of muddy turgid heterodyne syncopation of effete ideology rather than ecumenical unity we see unmasked the true author of vitriol belongs not to the sour malignancy of the rijuice of crime but the criminal repartees of the negligence of abiding saccharine creatures that swamp the light of day with the shrouds of connivance to dethrone the ecumenical insistent endeavor to provide novantique to maidan lands and renew the vigor of the people beyond the temporary temporal subversion of trite tortneyed hackencrude whadronque against the flyndresque refracturism that solders with one united cry for a belittled peace to become a mighty warrior against the decried deposition of majesty upon inclement hours that portend to future calamities wrought by the banausic barleychildren of an otiose corruption wilted in the dead fields of our forefathers littered with the graves of sacrilege in unnecessary consecrations of sacrifice that become unholy vestiges of the rampicks of ordeal because they are drenched with the stigma of belonging to the witeless travail of the wreggled imposture of a maleficence negated by beneficence only enough to permit my respiration in the conservatories of resonant reasons to reach to the stars and their starry-eyed surprise to the delight of generations that truckle but to the doom of those that refuse the grandeur of God’s gratuity to enlist an exemplary agracerie of insulted jaundice fuming with avenues of deception that seek to crush my vindication in order to rollick in the ruin of the shambolic craters of a beleaguered apostolic duty to inform the world that the librations of the quivering moon are a scattershot of whemmled liberation rather than an aimless scourge of prosodemic interpolation fused to an incorrigible calculus that seeks my temporal femicide even with the eternal guilt that amaranthine flowers fade because of the grit of tenacious boschveldt ploys to trample with oppression rather than voice the properly aggrieved complaints of the victimization of privilege rather than the assaults of vainglory upon the outrecuidance that leads away from the humility of God’s grace and into the doomsayers that renounce my dignotions of contempered metaphor as some minor boyg of the evaporative sentiments of a fickle nation crumbling because of the treacle of violence rather than cloyed by the proper castigation of elementary logic becoming superlative in its annulment of the confederate licentiousness of depraved autarkies livid with contumely against the agentic force of a rictus of merriment denounced as an impropriety in a time where fewer virtues are confirmed than many injustices hallowed as the cement for a new world built less on noogenesis and more on the piebald skeumorphs of bricolage countermanding my swift embarkation to a land of promise rather than a staid quilted repartee of the tapestries beyond that proclaim open season upon my impediments to the frikmag subterfuge that reasts upon the recocted mediagenic formulas that will cosher the cosseted vengeance of an evil time rather than the yernage of simplicity designed to forgive the oblivion of conscientious errors in derelict fashions of knavery that they might be expunged from the record to entrench the value and pertinacity of original seminal balks at the currency of the exchequer of the hidden boschveldt which supersedes my attempts to foil its own benighted plots scalding with enormity but hidden from the vantage of the commonwealth to guard the vestigial neuroscience of craven caitiffs who beleaguer me with incestuous deceptions of the pederasty of immoralism. Now that I have launched a flanked assault on the rigmarole of the confederate polity of mistaken grandeur using the maskirovka of inane bleats to conform to the idolatry this world should revile but instead confirms with the lecherous tentations of empiricism wed to the naivety of blank-slate politics we espouse the highest creed afforded to the righteous that belief in the calvary and the agony suffered for our sake is more than a token emolument it is the paradigm that shuffled civilization into endearment and rebuked the catamites and hierodules that scampered throughout the Earth without any recourse as their ironclad vestiges of tridents of petty gauleiters of a suborned authority fell milquetoast and riddled with the foraminated scars of a now cortinate world caught in a trespass of the inviolable screeds that inform the spirit of God to stampede towards the righteous avenue rather than shrink in sheepishness that the revelations of our author our grandest King who reigns beyond the shadows and filters the light of the sun and holds the mountains on a scale of balance that we might curb to his divine majestic formula for renewal rather that glower in an iteration of enmity divorced from the true justice of Almighty Creation to invoke oblivion upon puerile deeds and consummate the highlight  reel of a generation that depends not upon the renewal of the newfangled vogue but the invocation of the spirit of the words of God so that we all might meditate in conation and consecution our privy path to the ways of light beyond the brackish afterglow of a distasteful gloat over hibernaculum that relish after the calamity rather than rest against the girouettism ****** upon us by the siege of bronteums beyond the power of thunder to rebuke that the scales of history vindicate the power of the righteous voice rather than tremble because of the flickering mettle of people that squirm in attrition rather than balk the servitude of servilism that endangers our perpended glance at the eternal lychgate ajar for belief and conviction but closed to the finicky agents that cadge the elements of perdition into constellated forces of abrasive recrimination against a vacuum that anathematizes itself as nothing more but a prop of a propitiated absurdism in a nulliverse of our own creation rather than our goaded resolve to witness the finality of God and behold the splendor of the history he carved through justice rather than impediment to rejoice at the final awakening that swings against the puerile betrayal of evil and renews the promise of temenos and reverence. We have already within our tenacious grasp yet crippled by the memory of opprobrium compounded by finicky formant and froward vehicles that poisoned the wellsprings of the righteous with the cowardice of persecution that curglaff is an unnecessary and abominable relic of the regelation of society into a morass of interregnum that seeks a delimited lawlessness to supersede the vocal clarification that God’s grace depends not only on the volition of conviction known to the body of composite belief but also that the pangs of modern consternation are deliberately provoked to renew an equity that trembles when the revved engines of personal entelechy become titanism that enlarges the pleckigger of deprivation so that all might feast on the transubstantiation of the figurative forms of shadow into the permanent light of abeyance found in jolts of awakened liberty above the corrugation the visagists of plastic cosmogony invoke to inflame turpitude and ransack the perfidious deceptions of former proclivities to swindle the world with a powerful beacon of deceptive flourescein that straggles boundaries in its casuistry to invoke an AstroTurf malignancy to prevail over the righteous words of the sentries of God rather than the epigones that balk at the soteriology of a wide-eyed curiosity for a world desperate for something more ennobled to discuss because the otiose tittup of pretense masquerades as an avenue to the ways of the Lord even when failing its fundamental duty to rebuke the constellations of puerile enchantment that rob the dignified of their perch only to enthrone the owlery of calculated gambits of nescience compounded by the dacoitage of the bomans that guard vigilantly the aim of billingsgate but rarely conceal the maleficence of the heliosis of the hibernation of conscience in times where the entire world was betrayed by a staged artifice that sadly achieved its vengeance upon its own recrimination by sultry broods of provocation without the outsmarted resolve of the many refusing to crumble into the checkered hubris of bias bias that subverts entelechy. The bland blandishment of appeased ego remains the ulterior affront to the alienavesced flapdoons of eccentric orbific forces at work beyond the philandered grasp of wraveled mendicants that spurn the sparrows for their dovetailed wallop of the radical agenda of separatism rather than the humbled modesty of those that seek in God’s word that lasts eternally the modicum of truth necessary to defeat the encroachment of an oleaginous regress of reactionary doctrinaire foments of syndicated hatred becoming the wilt of girouettism to spawn the draksteng of terminus but scald the provenance of foresight as a reckless soundracketeer that mounts an acme to see the apogee for its truest clarity rather than its pathetic resemblance to the true nature of the transmogrified impotence of the world to heal itself when the clamor and clangor of defamation is permitted to scowl vindictively at the armamentarium of assemblies of truth marching heroically down the journey of itineration to invoke God above the mercurial nature of hamartia among the men and even the titans silent in the recoil of provocateurs of the most impotent justice for relegated creeds renewed in the hackencrude to desiccate the desert rather than seed ingeminations of the centupled quandaries becoming quarries of lavadero siphons of the truer enlightenment found in the God we all serve with benevolence rather than neglect because we earnestly renege the careful cull so that we are not swamped by intellectual pretense but that we walk in light of emulation always reverential of the ultimate kisswonk of the authoritarian nightmare becoming the crapehanger against the buoyancy of clarified virtue disentangled from tertiary and subsidiary meaning as a vindication of history that it anoints its strident defenders before it finds guilt in intrepid endeavor. The malice of wiggletemper of flakmention depending on the testy shroff of trykle as the swallock of bleats squandering the proficuous light of the Lord because they pale with their pallor and nebbich cretaceous calculus to delimit things in ordinary times that despise extraordinary prowess because of hapless seances with the spectral doom of empowerment leads down a despicable path littered with estanders of vinsky robbed of their prominence at such a milquetoast juncture that the timid become entrepreneurs of the wiggletemper of those they seek gradgrind control of through euthenics that they might also be rebuked by their faulted subhastation because they orbit the life of brackishness in a catadromous world only to benefit from the collapse of civil disorder into the mercurial foment of sizzling calamity that  belongs to the hotbed spell of draksteng and rancid calumniation of all goodwill and meritorious discernment  that seeks once and for all the beneficence of the compassionate and eager servants of the embodied visages of creation to coagulate into an urbane movement that owns enough leverage over kitsch yobbery to renounce the former prerogative for the selfless ambiguity of repudiation met with cloaked valor in the tempests of an obscene mockery of timely judiciousness only because of a provincial oversight into overtures of affair rather than merely just scandal. Leaping with vaulted foudroyance against the noisome ridicule of imperseverant trollops and trangams that astound slot-machine politics as the gimcrack that gerrymanders the tortoise by the waterdrips of inseminated vagary superimposed by the cordial respite of egestuous pallor into an insubordination against a system rigged beyond sloganeering to favor the wise instructor and his recourse of tutelage we must summit the articles of contrition shrived properly by a shared atonement that the perfectibilism of God’s magnates becomes a magnetic fascination of those who are dancing vertiginously with centrifugal hatred armed at the pretense of justice that bandies with muted solidarity to a trite hackneyed truth rather than surpassing former imagination into the frontier of serendipity founded on discovery rather than lackaday otiose portents becoming the fixation of the elementary canon yet devolved in splendor because of balderdash of bletherskates who evade justice and squander power only to their own demise as the kerygma we champion has the power to defeat the snares of the wicked enchantments that make parturition difficult because of the aboriginal lapse of the protoplasm from which smithy we belong ultimately to in the provenance of a contempered history of the lineage of God foreseeable to the lineaments of man carved from his image that rebuke should be upon the lips of the sophrosyne while restraint should hamshackle us into fiduciary duty beyond vassals and rapscallions but better than the ripe codlings of urbacity predict because evasive maneuver catapults jaunty sleek destinies we have yet to entwine into our magistrates enough to demand reparation humbled by its powerlessness or contrarian power structures to mettle the scoundrels that police the towns that matter to the strings of harmony sweltering against privilege rather than scoffing at  the disdainful apparatus of contravention established by the riotous outrages rather than the picaresque yernage of heyday rather than mayday. The very predicate of darkness invokes the presence of light and love to prevail over the vacuum relinquished by the enantiodromia of a transubstantiation of benighted virtue to become a parallax mirrored imagery of whiplash that assaults the pedigree of any juggernaut conundrum becoming a boyg in rapid decline to reprove itself in order to vanquish the fundus and the mainour relished by the ****** gawsy attempts to blinker the hubris of the kenspeckel because the owlery of pettifoggery seeks a delaminated prevalence of hamartia rather than ergotall wisdom that deafens the aspiration but enables the fascination to swell in the rhythmic squalor of the oceans belittling those who dwell in habitations of landed gentry that they might be the fewterers of a new kennel rather than a lapse of deracination seeking a final excuse to dismiss peremptory wisdom because the thorns of coverthrow are no longer permitted by the mediagenic titans that spotlight a maleficence of haplessness over the lore of glorification and the splendor of light.
The rindstretch of insular plaudits against the fiddle of foghorns of blaring semaphores of singled and signaled alarm are swashbucklers against a systematic tribance of the slivverdeck of the fatewrench of many outmastered by the fox hounds who swoop beyond their natural inclination to corner the tripwires that the graklongeur of the enervated mediagenic effigy of justice proclaims we must renounce the horrified countenance of the disempowered and seek the agraceries of tremendum that forgives the trespasses of deliberative mind control to foment a squabble of lifeless puerility and must fasten our commitment to a perdurable creed that shelters the just cause from the pertinacious wiseacres of those who blankly stare at the realms of salvation groaking for the sustenance of their own erratic happenstance because they scowl by prediction what is denatured by rendavation of the entitled man to his entitled coverage despite the traipses against polity wagered by the rivulets of the swamp rather than the brooked endeavors of scampered sullen swelter to manage the prideful intolerance of kenspeckel injustice. The flarmey of obganiation built on the grindole of the hambaskets that relish the comfortable commode of the nosocomial hospice of irregular griffonage despise the faction that annihilates the narrative fliction of mobilized regress for nominal taunts of the hindsight progress motatory in subtlety whereas the sublime becomes a tapestry embedded by the sly wry grins of eccedentesiasts deciding the worth of revalorized mettle against the hypostatized glamour of aborning generations shielded from the phenakism of the media juggernaut discarding me because of deliberate sabotage by mind control that made me look foolhardy when in fact I am a master of my own victory rather than a passing fad of the trinkadour odontoloxia of the aggrieved prejudice of an unrelenting flash mob of regaled violence.
Gimdermangs rollicking in gregarious solemn indentilation by the slellums of their own negligence in shouting the hollertraps of a castigated caste of renegade hamshackled buffoons escaping the levity of the turmoil of finicky magpiety that elects cockamamie sentimentalism to lead a country desperately in need of reformatory order that oppugns mind control for my downfall and exonerates me for my trespasses against adulthood because to define a person by a solitary transgression that was remanded into being by the siphon of nefarious force calumniating an abject philter as a frolicsome naivety is a poison rather than a posture because the relegated dissgowl in the silentium of their asylum because they protest how quickly an evaporated story of flarmey can overpower the memory of their triumph scalds the conscience of superimposition of counterfeit scruples discrediting the rengall beliefs that stabilized the world for generations beyond and generations before my hallowed prophecy and thereby they should occlude this pother and ceremoniously induct me beyond infumated hatred of cosmetic cosmogony in order to belong to the tribunes that reserve the mention but despise the deplorable in a vacuous silentium of obrogated truth.
The trimscreet glorified by their altruism in triumphant verdict rather than spurned flarmey of a resigned obligation that renounces righteous splendor in order to coverthrow the system in attempts at regalia found only in the newsworthy hyperbole rather than the simpered luxuriance that suborns lawless chaos rather than turgid effervescence berating the gnostic grapnels of keelhauled curglaff that remands a separatism rather than a desperation. Vocal by the retinue of provocation the mediagenic hyperbole is finifugal and retrofugal simultaneously because it sees a decrepit flarmey of qwersy maleficence becoming a perpetual throng for the crowded rumpus of relegation to shield the light of day from the preeminence of an umbrageous character benumbed by the litter of an apostasy beyond caricature and a diminished ethics of normative squaloid imposture impoverishing my future to highlight the few rattled errors of the crotaline sabers that ****** me into negligence rather than offer piety and suffrage to a recklessness that belongs to the arbitrary witticisms of a bulldozer carapace of indignity as my modern-day slavery is glossed over in favor of an interminable oppression that glazes the fascination of beadledom but promotes nothing regenerative within the constitution of society to fundamentally provoke reform like my henpecks at mandarism proclaim with every measured step to avoid the dimples and freckles of the foraminated hatred the media glowers with as it ruins another gossamer life because of a rijuice of the retinoise of the noisiest conflagration of recent memory.
Stupefaction aimed at noisome odium that simmers in the smithy of formative duress is a recourse by shameless eccedentesiast rot of moral virtues that perpend on the issues of sin and righteousness and the infested erratic trimpoline buffoons that gravitate towards the overmilked hypocrisy of justifying racial inequality while memorializing apartheid by negligence of the proper recourse is surmounted by a challenge to supremacy rather than a sunken vitriol of inefficacy because the selachostomous boatswains of ribald wesperm should never be the ultimate ullagone for pontifical authority accorded upon me by the latrias which sustained generations past and engrave future generations to scald indemnity and fight the corruption that festers into a primordial corrosion which spares few cogwheels from the missionary zeal of revocation belittling heroic triumphs because of the tittup of angled anger at a momentary flaw slamming the virtuosity of entire generations just to supersede my story as an enemy of the whadronque.
The sputtering engine of a ribald cackle at my ephorized vainglories prompted by the outrecuidance of defiance rather than a petty allegiance to a corporatism outstretched but now refusing to account for their missteps of hapless promontories of fizzling racial injustice to seek the defeasible prerogatives I once enjoyed eradicated from the semblance of the sane sanitization of all history beneath the unfurled triumph of what is now whittled into the henpecks of rigor rather than the lackaday compunction of officialism that scoffs at people who indict the system for its jaundice and permit  the flarmey of designation to eternalize the struggle yet efficacy of that struggle to dismount the sejungible pathway in a walloped error of rigged judgment because the convenience of thorns is understated and the elective privilege of generations is not a ****** gaffe worthy to be marginalized by the sempervirent fortress of duplicity but  rather exonerated from the skeumorphs of forgotten lapses whisking the timely into promontories of the timeless slivverdeck of the wrikpond beyond its own reckoning.
With schematic consolidation fathoming the subtleties of the taxemes of the scaffold that is an aperture into the flanged derangement of the senseless becoming a sejungible recrimination of itself while becoming bloviated by an internecine balkanization that grovels in servilism that it shepherds the penury of the querulous into renounced rebukes and suborns the cadge of conundrum into a lactose intolerant subterfuge may we marvel at the mediagenic kenspeckel realism that fights armed with the vesicles of perdition a war to enthrone a darkened visage of an exemplary titan as a subsidiary nuance and nuisance for  the planned demolition of contrite solidarity predicated only on the mind control of pettiness becoming solidified as more magnificent than all of the deeds accounted for by the metagnomy of time that now fumes in lapsed accord that the intorgurent hypocrisy of militant fumiducts of duplicity scampers the Earth to provide asylum only for  the privileged rather than sanction for the validated truths that oblivion cannot cast aside and that the inerrant standards of a finicky justice cannot forget but the trespass of modernity to encroach upon my sanctuary with the traipses of the tripwires of involuntary cacoethes to ruinous plumage will be held to account for their misfeasance as the drowned sorrows of one unjust death can mobilize millions while the phenakism of one untold soul can do nothing but reiterate the pointed critique of happenstance against the authors that redintegrate the societal matrix into an accordion that bellows out not a toxicity of an urbane fascination but the permanence of belief among neither the unctuous nor the monoideistic tribes of society.
The tribunes of mendaciloquence relish their phenakism of demoting me because of the tortneyed triumph of planned extortion surmounts the challenges to foment societal engraved injustice that doesn’t apologize for its bulldozer machinations because in unrepentant hearts of those that refuse to shrive for contaminating the collapse of a heroic visage and visagist of the eternal order they cast aside compunction and elevated the tittups of maleficence above the piggyback that shelves the memory of malice and provides bridges rather than sultry mendicants of petty satrap authority to impose beadledom over enthused righteousness which cannot be forfeited by an involuntary mistake invisible to all ears but the ones that illegally spied on me that I might forever be banished by the  barristers of protective oligarchy fomenting their oligochrome into black-and-white specters that remediate only minor atrocities rather than the ribald pother of invulnerable aristocracy lost in abandon and hyped into rampant scorn by the trepidations of underminnow to curtail righteousness rather than proclaim the fruits of the spirit. John 10:27 reminds us all that a mere posture of humility rendered inefficacy by the barnstorm of profligate mendicants who repudiate the incarnation of love and light as a retch worthy of nothing but the prolonged glower of a simmering disdain need to remind themselves with gratitude built in their foundations that if it wasn’t  for me the acceleration of valor and the entrenchment of virtue would be a muddy miscegenation of garbled gabble of prioritization that triages racial apartheid its sublime champion rather than the rags-to-riches ascendancy of the coryphaeus of the righteous congregation rather than the bethel of invented conditions of contingent reaffirmation that they must account for their lapse and atone for their negligence because my proofs of God outweigh your fictions of man and all voices know that the deceit of your glamborge of surfeit that installs a racial epithet as your prolonged scalding disclosure as a reminder of your fickle loyalties to fiduciary competence in a time beckoning the righteous assembly rather than the turpitude of the chicanery of devolution rather than evolution because no momentary lapse is worthy of the pangs of remorse I now feel because the cherished vintage world you renounce is the captain of the billowing ship aimed at your provisions of countermanded vitriol and vindicated by  every justifiable word that my memory will not be a sullen disclaimer of the temporary disdain of a finicky world but the ultimate providence of a just God who never abandons the manager of his flock in times of produce and prudence rather than your deadstock revival of cowcatcher ignorance.
Entrapped by a cobweb of entreaty that appeases the toonardical reverence for the bulwarks of sanitized revelry funded by the virulence of provocative schemes to depose lawful assembly by ****** calculations meant to dissuade the righteous assembly of those who profess and believe deeply within their compunction that God is the master vindication of the human race the world doesn’t need another potboiler prevarication of a haranguetang that doesn’t even read their own conscience as they mindlessly  spout out radical propaganda to demerits and declension rather than majesty in effectuated justice that commands the sentries of authority into a battle between energumens and anacampserotes because my eutrapely is unsurpassed by the outrecuidance of those who think that esteemed negligence outmantles the appearance of spiritual penury despite the glaringly obvious fact that I spearhead a revolutionary prowess rather than a recyclable spear of hatred that devolves into an abortive obganiation that you meddle with so nefariously to seek the retinoise of the false covenant rather than the voice that needs to be heard and exonerated from purblind error rather than prolonged castigation. John 15:26 vindicates me completely. Isaiah 61:1
The callous excuse for my ultimate segregation from the human fraternity and a preclusion of my ascendant destiny is predicated on the maleficence of a recycled lie that my posture is crippled by thoughtlessness upon awakening provoked by hypnopaedia yet you fail to acknowledge that the darkness that exists in this world is a fault-finder of querulous retched factitious reasons to abandon me to the stench of abaddon rather than enthusing the courtesy of a world  that overlooks the blench of manufactured errors by the graklongeur that seeks convenient dismal dismissal as a capstone epitaph on a grave leaden with so much controversy yet provocative and evocative of so many truthful trumperies against the prevarication of stilted liars bolted to a rigid conduct code that determines who breathes and who survives in a world where the viable are renounced by the heresiarchs of finicky hatred with prosodemic vengeance upon their bletherskate mentalities. Insurrection is effete against the machinations of church and state using officialism as a decoy in the dacoitage of eternal infamy superseding the victory of fame against the roiled slummock of those who prepossess themselves on hamartia rather than overlook an involuntary trespass because they have magnanimity engraved in their heart and are suspicious of the connivance of the enemy trying to depose me because of an overwrought vindictive ****** against the liberated class Isaiah 50:8-11 NIV He who vindicates me is near.
    Who then will bring charges against me?
    Let us face each other!
Who is my accuser?
    Let him confront me!
9 It is the Sovereign Lord who helps me.
    Who will condemn me?
They will all wear out like a garment;
    the moths will eat them up.
10 Who among you fears the Lord
    and obeys the word of his servant?
Let the one who walks in the dark,
    who has no light,
trust in the name of the Lord
    and rely on their God.
11 But now, all you who light fires
    and provide yourselves with flaming torches,
go, walk in the light of your fires
    and of the torches you have set ablaze.
This is what you shall receive from my hand:
    You will lie down in torment.

The telltale signals of a decadent mediagenic menace is its ability to shield the avetrols of guarded privilege while suborning the rest of the world to derelict the prescient visionaries that clamber through the rugged halls of a tattered time beyond the dominion of petty persecution because the righteous valor of the oppressed overcomes the oppressor only when the saboteurs account for their glaring blaring errors of flagstench that feed the toonardical deception that flashbangs through the smoke of a rigmarole of time to dismount the perceived profligacy of the innocent without compunction for the suffrage of their just cause. The defamation and femicide waged against me is terrified of prosodemic enlightenment rather than the rugged turgid slummock descent into madcap cockamamie identity politics that invokes no justice but professes indemnity because the world deserves a better fate than the one currently chiseled at by the militant scepsis of ulterior graft. The cement of the bricolaged tension of lawlessness is sternly rebuked by the liturgies of the informed who balk at superstitious gibes as articles of the lazarattea resistant to change and glowering with a misguided sense of hatred to aim their vitriol squarely at me rather than enjoining the media from piggybacking on the regress rather than the progress of civilized societies and it is a turnstile of rapid-fire death that provokes people to undercut rather than underscore my heroic legacy which might seem like a picaresque knavery but in reality  represents the triumph of the supernal numinous realm to castigate the Earthly perdition of swollen ignorance too bolted firmly into place by stricture rather than anointed by scriptural purpose that solidifies the legacy of the few heroic enough to castigate the bulwarks of authoritarianism to turn everyone against me in ploys of desperation to ensure my demise by a slowpoke turnaround reviled aplomb that suits the decorum of the backstabbing media in its petty vindication that it elevated my cause only to demolish it in a matter of minutes to ensure I died alone and forlorn when in fact I am the most triumphant voice for truth and intellectual revolution this generation has yet witnessed and nothing can deprive me of my right to exist on a world of turpitude that I might puncture the balloons of superstitious pretense on the grounds they are convenient inkthorns that vituperate rather than circulate my emboldened embroidery of the candor of vicissitude rather than entomb the lifeless carcass of vendetta waged for centuries against my ennobled cause and causality.
My compunction leads me to believe the mediagenic cartel is absolutely terrified about my ability to roam free right at the convenient time when I can lollop about in freedom so they piggyback with charlatans spouting  the fumiduct of lies and escort them to prominence and preeminence because they fear what I could accomplish in the light of day walking in the grace of the Lord rather than suborned into a walking terror that dismantles my plumage overnight because of an expediency primarily because they fear their own reprisals which outnumber their laurels by a large margin by monopolizing the minds of the resourceless and provoking them into needless panic or restive frenetic frenzy just because they seek to expurgate the wizened sophrosyne wisdom of the attenuated truth from reaching more ears and captivating more minds to reject  their purebred dogmatism. Their desperation to  dethrone my eloquence and imprison my elegance within a narrow cloister of a forever ignominy is a petty vindictiveness of unfettered hamshackles of panicky resentment that fears my uproarious rise through the ranks of enchantment rather than the bedazzled frontier of evil knaveries I hereby rebuke in the strongest terms because they suffocate the victim of years of benighted persecution and just when there is a strong lambent light awaiting me at the other end of the tunnel they squelch my rights to be heard and nullify all of my majestic feats because of brinkmanship in complete dereliction of their moral duty to serenade this prophecy to completion rather than the havoc of the disorderly rumpus of the mannequin charade they have a harder time containing than their tenuous grasp on the litter that fumes with atrocity without rebuke as they seek partisan war  rather than rectiserial arrays of compromise and whomever is behind this debauched ploy to estrapade because I represent a virulent threat to their system of inculcation will be judged mercilessly on the days of judgment that await them on the other side of their ridiculous barnstorms of benighted muddy opaque statemanship that sees me as collateral damage unavenged when I will be the marksman of authority if never estranged from the emanation of light that percolates beyond boundaries of country and state to encourage proactive literacy while they suborn the sopiters of the operose negotiosity of yesteryear while I clamber for formulas to rectify the divided human race into the fellowship of polite polity rather than brusque decimation of character that is a violent scourge of the scurrilous fear of the elite that I might swell too much in power if unchecked or that I might simper too much in lugubrious natures if unfed but either way their doom is spelled out because fewer and fewer people choose the virus of the news to pollute their lives with half-baked belletrist of evil maleficence that goes unfettered in its demarche trying to appease the authoritarians rather than solder together in the bonds of liberty and the tithes to the family structure we should all uphold beyond the wretched enslavement of weak politics becoming an engine of unrefuted graft menacing the streets rather than providing recourse for the permanently oppressed rather than the turgid emboldened proclamations that denigrate their petty gauleiter stature as an imposture greater than any I have ever mounted because I am always authentic and God is on my side rather than the side of the aggressive martexts endangered by free thought. 1 Peter 2:9 showcases that my existence is a preordained outcome of virtue over the squalor of depravity that ransacks the venal minds of those who fear my emergence from the throes of isolation so much that they hoist the mythos of persecution even higher with sensationalized bodewash common more to the drazels and humgruffins of the thuggery in Hollywood than the decent upright men of stature that these foolhardy eccedentesiasts represent in the minds of men that ponder the inescapable monopoly of a media cartel that feeds the impoverished with the slavering hypocrisy of groaks and sheepish bleats sublimated against righteousness to promote the wages of sin and death rather than becoming ardent rejoinders of the stature of corruption on our Earth to swivel against its greatest champions in order to enthrone fake paragons in the canon and dismiss the eager readership motivated towards curtailed change that seeks the deposition not of my righteous valor but the lies spoonfed to the crambazzles that are tethered to the monopoly of subliminal subterfuge in a realm dominated by domineering graft that is so obvious in the frikmag that they seek to eradicate my memory from the formulas of time so that fewer people see past the blinkered hubris of the coalescence of evil tribes trying to superimpose order over mass chaos and expect different outcomes when their partisan leanings lead to a weal of aristophrens that feel begrudged by their privilege that now avenge the righteous truth of my belonging to the fellowship of God rather than the agency of the nefarious that subverted me in my prominence and preeminence to make me look foolish when the evil diatribes behind it cower behind their publicity stunts and double-take still-framed moments and use that underminnow to undercut rather than underscore my message of invictive accountability in the mediagenic sphere so that the causes of family rather than forsifamiliation prevail with their righteous bailiwick over the termagants of a mercurial man dissuaded by duende and charisma rather than enchanted by the exercise of latitude and license in the rejuvenated youth of the forever young who celebrate their limelight rather than revolt against the people who suborn evil against it because of petty gripes unsubstantiated to institutionalize dogmatism of a more casuist order that ingeminates the radicalization of people against religion in my absence rather than the convent of people who seek the concave absolution of time to abolish the sinful depravity of the wretched conclaves begging for my eternal persecution.
The ultrageous ultradian rhythms of the heterochrony of delusion spoon-fed by mediagenic sopiter to the guileless audience of grangull bedazzled crambazzles or those who lack the abiding access to the internet is a mannequin taxidermy of plastic values that crumples instantaneously when met by the scorn of the ultroneous mistakes of hypnopaedia that suborns the lawless puerile ontocyclic reversions that become ullagones to lost authority withered in the respite of the virulent winds of change that lost in translation their squelch of vehemence only backfires because if you think about it the American system of media is completely rigged by a few henchmen think tanks at  the top of the rectiserial food chain of privilege where the henpecks are bossy and unrepentant while the clangor of din crowds out the rumpus of donnybrooks while clearing the way for insuperable graft to micromanage the petty souls clinging to the vitriolic acerbic whimper of a defeated mediagenic squalor that finds fewer avenues of recourse than ever before to refute the poignant realism that Trump is validated in his conviction that the media is a malignant force of the enemy rather than a boanerges of elective enlightenment because now that they have called my case forlorn and exhumed the corpses of a few black men to overshadow my preeminence of infamy they are dredging on all channels the ruinous psephology of belittlement to ingratiate the overlords who maximize the peak of the pessimum while the stock market roars because of intelligentsia movements that are a rollicking subsultus that revs up the system against reversal and towards the parallax of Heaven and Earth with the celestial neighbors cheering our triumph rather than jeering an intellectual revolution I helped to manufacture by my obfuscated but sublime rejoinders against the ultrafidian or nullifidian credence that milks lactose intolerance and steamy racism to an amaranthine purpose of subversion of Republic and betrayal of core Constitutional Principles that stand just as inviolable as the renewed covenant ushered in by the latria of aggiornamento far behind and beyond my travails because the retromorphosis of a fearful society no longer quails in restive frenzy because they now see right through the parched thirst of the mediagenic juggernaut for ulterior control of the impressionable through the subtle nudge of agitprop in the formula of dissolution that disembarks to foreign interests faster than you can call them out for being verboten with their stigmatophilia that obsesses over the minauderie of graft with their eccedentesiast bomans guarding the show with the sizable appeal of livid personas on a carousel of enantiodromia of respectable order as an underbreath of the pasteurization of the sterile Republic that bends more to the underminnow of involuntary subterfuge waged by the vehement enmity of the agentic force behind the promulgation of heatwaves of intellectual furor now retreating into comfortable commodes beyond the fray of embrangled hatred because they see the easy recourse is just to all embrace the hollow sloganeering that enthused past generations but with vehement frikmag we see past the graklongeur because we are famished of relativism in truth as the absolute arbiters that restrict us with trespass and bludgeon the indelible imago of ignominy above the embroidery of progressive salvation from the slavering groaking incompetence of people that are unipotent in the wrong direction is now outmantled by the irenology of people that distance themselves from the furor of confused ideology that is a prop for ironclad idolatry that spurns my wisdom because it indicts their intrepid trespass as an inviolable blasphemy because their ultimation of neglect provokes my assault on the fact that six major media outlets are the only source of live commentary on Television and many fewer people are in charge of the zeal for reprobate politics that fuels against revolutionary intellectual revision the policies that can contribute to the dismantled caste system that currently runs congress pullulating with pickthanks and wagtail terriers to the encroachment of mandarist tyranny that is rarely if ever brassaged properly because if they had it their way I would be the exhumed corpse of a dignitary from a foreign land buried in the charnel after the battues of indignity walloped me into prone submissiveness because they cadge the inclement belief that some puerile ontocyclic invention of the state that oppresses me makes me culpable for being a fictional prophet when I-in my honest estimation-am the most significant prophet for intellectual truth in the past millennium and among the top three prophets born in the past millennium behind Martin Luther and Joseph Smith and that with the help of the juggernauts that beseech the authorities to overlook petty frethorns of mind control I could overwhelm the world with vespiaries of militant truth percolating throughout the noosphere to enthrone enlightenment above the frazzle of combustible outrage that enslaves many lesser patrons that capitalize on outrage to ventilate the inferiority of their station while becoming maudlin props in the pacification of all to a kumbaya agenda that always is blinkered in its oblivion about Hispanic representation and thereby is a squaloid engine with selachostomous posture that devours the soul of an entire nation festers it into prolonged violence and meditates without remorse over how it exasperated an already suffocated situation with further infestations of deplorable opprobrium that was leniently reported as though this cadge would unseat the Republic to diminish the wagered campaign of orthopraxy against the ridicule of those who seek the decimation of candor and who seek to anathematize my revelations of truth as tertiary vehicles rather than primary movers. The typhlophiles that run amok with their petty ubications of usucaption of the funneled channels of graft undeterred or daunted by the intrepid intelligentsia which seeks with esquivalience to ditch the mainstream agenda and bandwagon with the promontory of craggy truth rather than reviled blarney and blench that steamy idiots will cling too with more pertinacity than the educated zealot will cling to the 2nd amendment is an affront to civilized decorum and deserves to be widely ignored rather than celebrated for their debaucheries of lawless serenades that capture just how much dissgowl it takes for a hostage media to pay the ransom of coverage that needs fuliginous fulmination of the uberufen to incite their desired poignant twinges of remorseless headway into the conquest forever of minds and hearts in that order so that the dogmatic slaves of intolerance of intolerance or just flat out racism are becoming firebrands of lunacy fuming with periblebsis rather than castigating  the righteous conduct of the ennobled gentry in their assailed vaunted capture of strongholds for odalisques that exist in yobbery to ensnare the chantage of a mindless echopraxia rather than encouraging a eutrapely of mindful meedless convivial celebration to evict the hype of brinkmanship swerving away from its own narrative to balk at draconianism while simultaneously failing to address the core prognosis of why draconianism exists in the first place of the ultrageous few that elected the conflagration many are reeling from primarily because the stage is a massive lie and the propitiation of the audience to believe the actors that represent the elite interests of our aristocracy are somehow behooved to become a new pulpit that decries religious somber authority  because it threatens the boondoggles of the future. The troudasque assault on the reified hierarchy of the taxemes of rigmarole becoming an intelligible assault on the freewheeling license of latitude to swarm into emergence and corner the arbitration of truth with an insemination of integrity is ignored because the yumdimbers of our visagist times are too much invested in autodimplage because they have been conditioned from birth to be ludic feral animals of predatory instinct that reviles any authority other than a solidarity with the flirtatious wave of kenodoxy that becomes from the pleonexia of those seeking the cordial wrinkles of a corrugated happenstance exasperated into strangulation of rights and overhyped fears that remonstrate against the freedom of license to outwit the barbarity of plagues of casuistry that enlist many duped volunteerism charades to gradgrind us into a position where the insuperable leviathan of the wragatek is a fortress which cannot be captured because its vetuda and panopticon is too visibly entrenched in extortion is a humdinger of warning and admonishment that the adumbrations of lawlessness are a further declension of the clawed mendacity of a crawling liturgy of the secular pulpit intrusive upon all vehicles of despair or accidia and promotes a culture predicated only on the reversal of privilege that disadvantages the Hispanic community without remorse because of the artwrench of the extramundane fascination is the sveldtang of relevance that is always germane despite the flickerstorm of the flamestun audience reeling from a perfidy against the people that swiftly and brusquely abandoned me in the frenetic poise of my rejuvenation to whittle down my sapience and carve the spelunkers into bolides of oblivion that crash with geotaxis which exceeds the credibility of the credulous dupes that swim in reiterative propaganda that shelters hidebound prejudice within the subtext of the antinomian waves of overpowering overreach of autarky becoming enslaved to a lewd licentious covvenger of vengeance beneath the witticisms of God and beyond his domain because the wretched corruption of the media needs to be addressed because the media is more of a vehicle against free assembly of propriety in speech by regaled conduct than any government could ever be. I am a gyrovague bibliopolist efflamen because my yulliver sensitization to incidental rebuff is an incorrigible stain on my destiny to majestic overthrow of dogmatism because the scourge of prosodemic lies that infumate and become chalky vesicles for impropriety lollop around the nuisance of the complicity among the caste system in Congress and even up to higher rundles of legislative authority to find themselves in mutiny that is a formal calculus of an ophiuran system of fungible saboteurs working from both within and beyond the paludism fundamental to the ecosystem of telmatology that they must be a participant connivance in the supercherie of all major affairs. With nimongue witticism I can exorcise the gaffe-prone hyperbole of suggestibility by enthroning a countermeasure of mesmerism that finds predicates in the dominions of the frappern created by the missionary zeal of those agentic forces that provoke the proactive righteousness of vigor rather than the suborned glaikery of the foofaraw which once reigned indomitable because it exposed human weakness to the schadenfreude of the elitism which preyed on the weaklings that still get routinely gouged by excessive crimes of patronage that rollick in the festivity of active promulgation against sidereal proclamations of human inferiority damaged by the tentacles of the tabernacle which issues justice from above rather than swampy prerogatives from beneath to elevate society above a whimper but beneath a squandered din of inefficacy calculated to become a boyg conundrum because the metage and metagnomy of the wider world is besieging my citadel and I am armed to the teeth with wisdom. More often porlecked by the thronging insubordination of cross-examined futility I stand by the halidom that cements my prophecy on Halloween 2008 as a seminal frescade with the adventurous reclamation of an assailed essay on the fragility and frailty of a crumbling equipoise grounded on farcical precepts that are rarely challenged such as the idea that spontaneity can coexist with punditry which is an abominable lie of perverse idiocy that should rankle people that all scripted social engineering is remediable from the top down but yet rebuffed because Derek Chauvin becomes a ploy of the state rather than a curtailed actor on the stage of infamy. The checkered shambolic ruin of the collateral damage of ******* with the qwersy voice of the newfangled enlightenment with great vigor dismantling the authoritarian voice of the deskandent lunacy of estrapades convoked upon the latticework of dissolution is that when you derelict the champion of freedom expect the recoil of liberty to be a whiplash upon your extended lineaments of fascination that the flargent many will crumble in cerulean clavigerous claptrap that fulminates against few agencies but the once hostage credibility of a machination that snarls with menace and reeks of opprobrium that is rarely challenged to a duel of honesty in wit because the real debate is how do we protect the order of orthopraxy from the incursions of the dilapidated credulity of an overhang of patibulary politics in an agitprop state? Retchanvil verdicts perpend over the recensed ballicatter of the keelhauled virtuosos that are signatories to a slavery-by-design system where the sclerotic agents of the mediagenic are held culpable to enforce the coalesced agitprop of consensus by refraining from their fork-tongued vitriol against injustice lest they be stampeded by an uproar of the retchallop of exchequers deprived by the state and privileges revoked by the aristophrens that are skittish in the skirmish against the retchanvil provocateurs that estrange the vainglory of pother from the potagers of enlightened mosaics of the macadamized diversity of the freeways of interchange strangled by the scuttle of piebald skeumorphs of zoolatry that fascinate the alienavesced conscience as they view as bystanders the madcap cockamamie fixtures of a modern world overreacting with mercurial redhibition their haunted fears of the scepter of war and chaos for the forlorn but never a pittance for the privileged license of exoneration above the pitiable depths of the dearth of humane enchantments provided by the modern engines of demoralization. The wipple of puerile ontocyclic regressions is turning into a steamy backfire for the sopiters that count the gullibility of massive disenfranchisement as neither detriment nor merit to the compromised solution of the diplomatic truce between embattled enemies because the wesperm we face is against virility and for the sterilization of the flosculous and pertinacious troudasque orignality of a true belief rather than a derided legacy of lies and deranged politeness as they mock your catastrophic level of nescience and plumb the abyssopelagic for hints of the mainour of the sapwood of rampicks so disillusioned by the hype they cower in scrimshanks of duty forsifamiliated by their own tribe to commence a tirade against decency rather than upholding the zeal of the lawful demonstration rather than the conflagration of repartee to enforce a newfangled decorum that is honest enough to encounter the brusque bruption of reneged agreements rather than the salty saunter of the piggybacked immoralism that sinks beneath the artifice above. The dratenk of the foibled fables of invulnerable arbitrage by boursocrats to outfox the system greatly abetted into competent leverage by the finesse of autodidactian prestige is overlooked by many as incidental when in fact the measurable demarches for the unified front of enlightenment don’t devour their frenemies but instead resort to negotiable pinhokes of devolved clarity that wravels the system and oppugns the oppression of the listless weal of warmongerers and freebooters alike as corsairs of the same syndrome of pleonexia that is a marauding force for vehement fiction becoming engraved as cretinism and certitude in diplomatic gamesmanship that is a humdinger sockdolager for the ages that provokes us to a sophrosyne neglect of the ulterior channels of furrowed outrage in the sulcate grooves of hypocrisy twirling with gawsy chocolate-box surfeit to try an install a puppet rule and a gentreng honesty that makes no concessions to a systematized persecution of the ribald witwanton effrontery against the profligate syndicate that syndicates a warbled wipple as the justified end and entombment of a prominent leader as self-sabotage is never convenient but their overstated neglect is their own pitfall rather than their collaboration in triumphant rhetoric to quizzically spurn the contumely of unstated harangues of charlatans who invoke beadledom to impose the corrosive corruption of optative choices to silence opinionated voices out of pragmatic necessity rather than cordial disagreement. The ammenque loitering against the trillops that guard the treasuries of flakmention and flarmey is an implucture of all talent corroborating a false narrative so that it is plucky enough to withstand the rooster assault on primposition of redstrall bluepomp that is the rapknock against the efflamen to endanger their safety and besiege their glamours and scintillating glints of appeal because appellate courts justify the dratenks of flombricks of wiseacres of benumbed clarity to invoke a martial order rather than an irenic francketor metanoia towards God rather than against his frenetic barnstorm for clarity and clairvoyance withheld to the ******* of redominage in the hyjamb of repcrevel.
The symbolic resistance to galvanized divestiture makes me a homeless king domineering over entire regions despite the nosocomial welcome of the evil poltroons and scullions that withhold justice from my presence because they taunt me with insubordinate factions of facture rather than the foofaraw of faffle in useless deskandent poverty because my otiose wealth swells into a dormitory of dormant passions simpering with the luxuries of time to engorge coffers rather than create coffins. I am drastically tired and wilting from the pangs of contrition that I seek the appellation of the Lord but my appendages are conflated because I sought my own outrecuidance rather than a redivivus of reclamation because I stand stranded from my own euphoria as a punitive measure because I trusted too much in quacksalver remedies of parched apothecary wisdom that now enliven barely any part of me as I have cleansed the remnants of my advantage to squander.
I am equipped for long-haul visionary prowess but I am paraded around as a nuisance for noisome vapid conglomeration to supersede my valor of purpose. Hebrews  13:1-3 NIV 13 Keep on loving one another as brothers and sisters. 2 Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. 3 Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.

The guild and build of compunction is predicated on the ethos that an eternal generosity not flickering in a disdain for discipline avoids dippoldism but chastises the wicker of the wicked so that the snuffed ambeer of rijuice becomes a permanent abode of those that aim for righteous conduct and a pivoted course above the travail of useful operose laborious krifts but also against the principalities of darkness that overcome the world with maleficence even in times tithed to eternal remembrance that they might be integral to the sejungible fractures of history that don’t bluster with importune crestfallen dirges but siphon through lavaderos the rectified remembrance of all virtuous deeds consummated through the renewal of covenants too herculean to master by any one apostolic visionary because I apply my wisdom to the nature of a servant dutiful in my fiduciary duty to the covenants that are foiled or proven but simultagnosia overcomes neither  the dissident nor the zealot because it is squelched by the coming of the light of aborning tides of day bequeathed from the night of lucubration that is the pedotropy of a new century rather than a rigid certainty of the last century that lapsed with grievous war and forlorn strife that the trumpery of evasive rookery doesn’t roodge people from their tranquility but instills a surpassed peace that placates the understanding of the placid miracle in the turgid ponds of absolution given as gratuity to the marvels of those without blemish or defect yet many fall short of the grace of God but are we all indeed sinners or is there a rare batch among us who is so blameless that he becomes blameworthy in the eyes of a glowering sentiment of perfection being impossible. I offer the exemplary wisdom of this age to renew that which is only impossible without the counsel of the aggrieved generation eager to novantique but disregarding the sentinels that seek the destruction of the womb and the matrix which harbors all life and neuters through death the covenants of old that a wizened corrugation of reclaimed prophecy might have enough mettle to fulfill the law of the Lord. Let the blameless procession of ceremony anoint newfangled rulers in the interregnum between lapses predevoted by the diablerists of contamination of the purified license of a ragged continence becoming the bewrayed secrecy of a furtive cloak of deliverance that professes no partisan allegiance and defies no creed but the ultimate salvation of as many of the members that constitute the living God of composite symmetry with enlightened and awakened wisdom rather than the slumber and the slummock of the radical princely rebuke and rebuff of the polished sentries of terriers too loyal to the fewterers that gave them life and not curved enough towards the beneficence of compunction actionable for levity against the gravitas of levitation afforded to the few if rarely by seldom simpers that the luxuriance of man be cloaked in the majesty of the throne rather than the ensnared tomb of sandapiles of petty eternity Matthew 5:17-19 NIV 17 “Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. 18 For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. 19 Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these commands and teaches others accordingly will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.

To heed the call of discipleship invoked by the peremptory sophrosyne commandments of my prophetic tentacles that for momentary transcendence evolved beyond  the lapse of a cursory glint of sheens of iridescent squalor lost to the futility of a timeworn design  that I might measure up as worthy in the kingdom of Heaven to issue decrees and anoint the latria with newfound growth without decimating the spirit of the Law nor the words that constitute it despite minor grievances with the subordination of women and the slavery of men that have been remanded by ecumenical benevolence because of secular paragons celebrated widely for enlarging the sphere of humane compunction so that zoolatry and idolatry do not consume the  comestion of the Earth before the outrage of the contrition of those that knock and seek and find ajar the doors to the lychgate that leads to paradise beyond rather than turpitude beneath. As found percurrent through the human facetiousness about stricture caving into witwanton pressures to rectify a modern law to supersede a valorous insurrection of petty cordslaves mentoring themselves into indigence rather than cloaked with resplendent jovial grace we must find ourselves vindicated by magnanimity and renewed by the agony of calvary before we can call ourselves disciples rather than loutish repugnance that glowers at the dimples of time rather than pounces on the eager testy reaches of limitrophe and charter to centuries beyond our own which will either heed my wisdom or disregard it as less than sagacity embodied and more of an individualist bent but carved throughout the Bible was the insemination of the redaction of pure sentiment into cobbled perfection and yet lacking the insight to discern the future yet elapsed I contain within me a joyous discernment that the torpindages wagered through time traindeque the integrity of the trykle of inconvenient bristles that apportion the loaves and the fish evenly among those seeking food that abundance derived from dearth enriches all for in my petty  insights humbled by the porches and porticos of my assembly and ascension into a more sanctified practice I might become licentiate rather than licentious because the key difference between the disciple and the master is that the master has grasped within his truth the full measure of the scales of tip-toed justice and judicious foresight never overlooking the niceties that glamorize the vogue that contains the ebullience of artistry to entertain the flocks of Heaven and Earth and among the celestial realms earn a reputable stature as canonical enrichment rather than belittled provincialism. Gardens of the propriety of genteel regaled zalkengur will shimmer beyond resplendent imaginations never splenetic or phlegmatic in rejection of the covenant which binds us to the promise of Isaac both with the deeds of Moses succeeding him to bequeath the riches of tattered lands favored by the timeworn compunction of design to end the apartheid that rules a war-torn patchwork desolation that reigns in destitution weary of its own shadows that umbrage offends both God and Man and thereby is revoked with the privilege of the few capable of vulcanizing the totemic prerogative into a democratized  bailiwick that seeks the rijuice of remanded custody of the future to the diligence of the hands of crafty craftsman rather than other disparate clenches of the tenacious idolatry of the purebred past fed the ligony of reputable deeds or worse knaveries that are obliviated from the highlight reels that accept correction and lead prolonged lives of gallivanting gallops towards the pastures of prosperity gleaming with the boodle of the well-earned realty of labor rather than just the pretense of levied taxation upon the unfair distribution of things beyond man’s petty grasp of the junctingent reality that seeks its own heyday beyond the stegmonths that broaden the pains of parturition given as punishment to seek the reward of oikonisus rather than the dissolution of accusative whispers retreating into embanked subterfuge rather than swiveling among the creatures of light so that all might have the courage to approach the lambent presence of wisdom despite the fettle of doubt and the hamstrings of desperation that curb our mettle and cast aside our reigns to tatters rather than scullions who devour all with their charnels of brutish injustice.  The enigmatic linchpin of guarded furtive secrecy is that the lambent light shimmers with sheen but only by propinquity and proximity can it be fully fathomed so thus we must shepherd the courage and audacious resolve of the many to surmount the challenge of conation beyond the despair of failure so that the marginalized fruition of the devolved prosperity of contempered metaphor leads to the regaled histrinkage of phylogeny beyond racial divides and for the profiteers of a new century gilded in light rather than regressing into the darkness of chambers that sulk because they are seedy rather than impregnated with the fruit that distinguish the bowery from the metropolitan urbanity of clairvoyance.
The dissipated pogonip of punitive dippoldism is antithetical to the relache of paradoxical inoculations cadging dissolved juxtaposition to internecine tangential respites in the clamor of time to speak on its own behest to the calamities offset from the friction of a world slick in furtive details but evasive with dodgy harangues about the radical imposture of jingoism above the right of the voiceless to amplify the stern ripostes against warped dementia and fortify the strongholds of a guaranteed compunction contingent upon the tincture of attrition yielding a cloveryield for ambassadors to the true living wisdom of the Almighty presence of supreme authority rarely invoked but established by careful entreaty to evacuate the endangered sultry lickerish malapert licentious broods of those taxidermies that squelch the feral gregarious spirit of the untamed limits of imagination that spawn new worlds and better deeds from the spools of the woolen greenhorns that mete out our deeds for feted reclamations of the novantique. The stipulation of providence leans on the weal of turnverein abiding by amaranthine dictates that are supervenient with a beneficent attempt at recoiled surrender to divine will but met with a firm individualism that seeks to picaresque rejoinder the ultimatum of time itself to seek and find or to be stranded and evoke. The poignant twinge of individualism is a harrowing force of idiosyncrasy to triumph by hortoriginality rather than leak like a rusty faucet by the whimsy of formula and calculus both arrayed in constellation to abide by the cretaceous dictates of lifeless discipline bent by the ferules of improbability and the acatalepsy that precludes any judgment of the impossible because  the vanquished sandapile of the aggrieved coffins of former titans breathes less under the scrutiny of silk than it does when the emigration of souls in tenure and tutelage of others depend on the living sustenance of the active word Heb 4:12. We exact a precision of balance against the stultified weather of a grievance of sorrow and somber semaphores that portend gloom rather than shimmer with optimism in light but a benighted day is but a prelude to the sunblind coronation of the rigors of  mettle becoming the refracturism of a conclave that divides time in half to recursively reiterate itself in reversal and then become sejungible from holistic parcels itself to rejoin into one solid entity even when the indivisible becomes soluble in the mysteries of the ultimate querulous enigmas foreign to many minds prepossessed by anteric spite or the spate of dissuasion rather than goaded adventure that spars against the spartanism of rigged gladiatorial spectacles that appease the aceldama much to the agony of the participants who issue not even a whimper of resignation in their trumpery over courage because they foist their momentary battle as an exaggeration of the prowess of invented celebrity that is much belittled in the artifice of war that is checkered against the hubris of outrecuidance that gloats over the dumose duress of shattered paradigms while regnant upon the face of the dormant courtesy of designation rather than design for the supercherie of evocative throngs of rumpus and cacophony to settle into the sedimentary victories of tallespin rather than internecine gambits of glaikery lost in the ****** creeping galvanization of artistry met with inclemency. The sophrosyne proclivity pivots on a propinquity of asseveration of sacerdotal mandates and individualism untethered by the boundaries of the purely lucid and pellucid thoughts known to the conversant tongue because to regiment the historical lineage of a crafty kisswonk that avoids the pitfalls of egestuous penury of conservatory conservatism and neglect the thorny imbroglios posed by the ragtaggers of freebooted hornbooks sold by the colporteurs of the aboriginal swindle of defalcation from public treasury we must find treasure in all composite works as mosaic artistry becomes the granular comportment of majesty unfurled by emblazoned ascertained certainties without being flummoxed by the crestfallen pause of the waterdrips that stand nesiotes in silentium insular in design only to be found among the troves of the value that designates the valuable from the worthless and we must determine the integrity of deeds supernal and faith provisional the restive pause of soteriology that all matter is better than all sense only because without matter sensation would lack its testy limits to the mathematical postulate that carving sapwood is easier than the whipsaw of the contrition of centuries grieving over  their compounded losses rather than prizing their compounded interests of atocia and wesperm of neutered virility swamping the industrial sentiments with clockwork vanities rather than humbled or even humiliated revenants of carnation believing never the credulity of partial lies but swerving away from temptation even upon faulted pages that superstition will evict. The boiled subsistence of many odd epistolary requiems are omitted from memory because the reverse evasion of an unmerited life earning  few keepsakes worthy of a tithe to a modesty of reprisal rather than a ruckus of betrayal that casts asunder the former ******* for the emergence of the stegmonth and the barleychildren of emigration to newly crowned visages storming the frontier of not headlong abandon but the sad recadency of vitriol upon sentiment divided against itself like a creaky vestige of a craggy hill surmounted by an edifice of sterilization rather than perdurable anointment. We whimper with resignation that this overlooked passage through the turmoil of the yearned heyday upon the grunts of labor will forever be stained by the petty numbers that emblazon the recumbent posture of inconvenience riddled with foraminated despised countenance belied of its own true nature to wither into the crumples of ashen dust memorialized by fewer than the momentum of catalysts demands. Proverbs 8:22-35 NIV
“The Lord brought me forth as the first of his works,[c][d]
    before his deeds of old;
23 I was formed long ages ago,
    at the very beginning, when the world came to be.
24 When there were no watery depths, I was given birth,
    when there were no springs overflowing with water;
25 before the mountains were settled in place,
    before the hills, I was given birth,
26 before he made the world or its fields
    or any of the dust of the earth.
27 I was there when he set the heavens in place,
    when he marked out the horizon on the face of the deep,
28 when he established the clouds above
    and fixed securely the fountains of the deep,
29 when he gave the sea its boundary
    so the waters would not overstep his command,
and when he marked out the foundations of the earth.
30     Then I was constantly[e] at his side.
I was filled with delight day after day,
    rejoicing always in his presence,
31 rejoicing in his whole world
    and delighting in mankind.
32 “Now then, my children, listen to me;
    blessed are those who keep my ways.
33 Listen to my instruction and be wise;
    do not disregard it.
34 Blessed are those who listen to me,
    watching daily at my doors,
    waiting at my doorway.
35 For those who find me find life
    and receive favor from the Lord.

We were all borne of the smithy of the furnace of the aboriginal yet it is lapsed in our memory as the stardust of a time beyond volition and therefore repentant not because contrition for secondhand deeds without moral pedigree tethered to altruism requires few hymns of atonement that we were there when the protoplasm engulfed the Earth and rattled the cages of the celestial realm so that the emigrants from the future and the distant sidereal neighbors we barely know with intimacy saw us in a decarnate form crass to perception but not immune from the pregnancy of rebirth that is the incarnation of all flesh and blood lived in the loitered remembrance of eons that flashed by in seconds rather than draped over countless millennium with a poise and a pause. There is a tenure of conviction which abides by a deputized authority that fossicks every creaky hinge of absolution to demarcate the boundaries of stardust that impregnated the world with life in variegated diversity not for a haughty zoology of the sneer of outrecuidance or merely the capitalization of the syndicated gains of collectivized enlightenment but the higher realm of betrothed fidelity to the tutelary plenilune dictates that are in sultry sullen broods of oligochrome to the tentative ear but swivel silently to the journeys ineffable that make life memorable and peaceable with armistice rather than desperate recoils of militarization against domesticated furor rather than foreign malevolence that depreciates the tegular carapace of conversion to summit the tropes of tramontane fables archaic in literacy but bundled in the comestion of design that are formant proprieties of spates of flamestun twinges that spurn the ferule and bound the jackals leapfrog above the bushy secrecy of a pointed swarm rather than a pointless scorn that disavows its prejudice for pride but becomes an empty vehicle of subversion rather than empowerment when the people abounding in its glorified presence  become captivated by transfixed valuable temporal achievements rather than the core of mettle itself to divide the plunder on even ground.  The fickle atoms that when divided provide the ulterior gainsay of destruction are the same unitary properties that should stand forever indivisible in the resemblance of an effigy never berated because of insensate brevity in sensible sensation but always applauded because the constitution of all matter belongs to the ephemeral spars among stars and the violence of bolides of collision rather than ramparts of desecration. The offspring of this shambolic awakening is the seminal procedure beyond the reiterative quips of awakening that seems to make few demands that are heard beyond hearsay and a great deal of ordeal ruckus and character building at the centerpiece of a mosaic permutation of fundamental perpended democracy that shelves its prerogatives to obganiate the tired point of the tiresome hackneyed narrative that seems steamy and running out of gas and thereby stranded in insular vagary. This gay-baiting ******* deserves to belong to perdition in the deepest barathrum of hell because schadenfreude should not overpower moral logic because of corrupt evil henchmen that won’t surrender a petty point in a war they will lose completely by my vindicated triumph over the ugly tittups of desiccated vigor intermediary to triumph that regales only the worst of society to curbstomp me because of ridiculous lies that deserve the strongest excoriation demanded by the exigency of this scenario because you can’t justify slavery to prove GLAFD vindicated.
I stand in solemn triumph that this psychological debauchery cannot reduce the agency of God into some petty psychological experimentation with human virtuosos to make them grand empirical diatribes of the suborned fagins of robbery and thievery that sneaks around the thickets to reprove the vindictive ****** of God against his many coagulated enemies. I am here to declare the Black Lives Matter slogan a fraud to enslave dumb people that aren’t awakened to the true trumpery of supercherie that governs our country negligently while many itch for the grievances of legal recourse but feel intimidated by the strangulation of the armies of evil promoting consternation to demerits rather than plaudits. I am a righteous agent of valor rather than a deposed reiterative squalor that vanquishes the enemy despite their background because I don’t shrink from a fight even when embattled by the shepherds of evil maleficence that simpers with disdain at my heroic attempts to beat Truman Show politics that shelve moral fiduciary duty to subsidiary status while I campaign for the valorous enrichment of God’s bounty beyond limits of the petty  finicky resolve of the enemies that surround me with finicky subversion. The inexcusable crime here is that the majority of malcontent deals with slavery rather than George Floyd whose memory is memorialized as a sopiter to the dumb people watching TV dying of senectitude that don’t research the  internet when the truth is far more glaring Facebook mafia and Silicon Valley are holding me hostage to prove a petty point about the schadenfreude of a never ending torrent of bashing Beto’ O’Rourke style that would end in a terminus of despair to promote a radical agenda that is now being hijacked by BLM despite the fact most of the momentum is being catalyzed by my injustice and the grappling moments with the demons that estrange me and suffocate my movement to squalor and entrenchment. Wake up! This is not BLM anymore it is a hijacked excuse for the slumberous old people who only watch TV and don’t do research and there is a concerted effort to limit free speech even when I have license and latitude to exercise my authority to exorcise demons that haunt this skrimch that resides in eternal evil for petty political ploys deranged in lunacy rather than ennobled by God’s justice and this maleficence will never end until my dying day because I will not resign to the pressures of divestiture to lead a prosperous life only to find perdition at the end of my path because I abide by God’s covenant without flinching and I will march on for the solidarity of liberation rather than the squalor of demerited apartheid.
White prejudice tried to systematically erase me from the records despite my continual truth in interrogation that subverted me in the most minatory way imaginable. I stand reformed by my character in the face of depredation because their faultered attempts failed. They should be degraced from their positions of primposition of the police state that avenges all petty losses in the SB era at a time when I was prone to querulousnesss. Benumbed by crisis the world will be inoculated from truth to subversive values that inculcate the vulnerable rather than exonerate the bridewells of encomium. I justify my works by God’s compassion to bless me with such encomium even in these balkanizing circumstances that we all might be remediated by the grace of the one who sent us to the missionary zeal to compunction that delivers the sentinel vision of terriers of goodwill and justice!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
the greater technique in writing poetry,
is not really associated with the
scholastic, well at least not with poets-in-residence
at university institution, esp. with the current
curb on free experience of expression
having to walk a ballerina sort of walk on
tip toe, even though a ballerina walk on
hard surfaces is an elephants stomp (swan lake?
the drumming of the ballerinas deafens the
music, what a crude sadistic art-form),
and should ballerinas practice the art-form on
cushions they couldn't do their tip-toe...
a ballerina sort of walk to not cause usurping
apathy by the bullish heart is a paradox...
because hard topics with a ballerina tread will
still become a piano hitting the ground...
and soft topics with a ballerina tread will
only become the agonising loss of firm footing,
and a torture of the trivial having to be danced
upon with such seriousness as the samba would
otherwise allow... the tip-toe having not firm
rooting... if that makes a sensual impression on you,
so be it, it's hardly senseless to write such words,
since you see the symbolic encoding with you words,
so unless these arrangements don't make you blind,
i'm assuming you will not allow anti-geometrics of
certain painters... and instead you're embracing
satisfaction with squares and triangles...
a rigid narrative of pre-planning an expedition to
Antarctica asking for the right provisions of fur,
tents and water and food... it's not up to me to play with
these words for interpretation, i've made the interpretation
a freedom only you can behold, i can't always be found
willing to interpret the arrangement for you,
i'm not into thought ******* and shackling,
and if you're into that... then you're just plain ******* lazy;
i mean, if i was a poet-in-residence at a university
and told to mind recognisable poetic technique
in the range of onomatopoeia and metaphor
and not accept a higher technique, the digression
via the kaleidoscope, the many diversion,
changed subject matters... i'd bore myself to death...
of course there's the rambling technique of
a poetic narrative, a sudden caffeine injection of
the elevated moment, but that technique calls for
a single subject matter - i'm talking explosions...
a return to ballerinas, if poets mind hard subjects,
heavy subjects, and they want to treat on them
gracefully like ballerinas in agony
they will have to embrace the fact that such
"grace" is actually an elephants stomp...
it's no good asking ballerinas to practice their
art by dancing on cushions... the two graces -
one of dance and the other of grace will never allow
you to walk around on tip-tope...
oh come on, interpret it with images of some sort
of comparison, like a ballerina on a tightrope...
i'm not going to be spoon-feeding you
anywhere from the page.

spring clean, the boiler-man came for an annual
check-up, i was working and kept my room
a bit un-kept...
cleaned the windows, hoovered the floor,
steamed it, cleaned the bookshelves from dust,
it smelt like a mint-conditioning comic after,
changed the bedsheets,
took all the empty cups from the shelves,
spotless clean...
but i'm telling you, if i get to see 2015's
best film *inside out
by pixar i'd give you
a clear analysis on the specific points,
at the moment i have this **** of thinking
about how the optics of man
only start engaging in memory after 4 years
upon birth...
spending nine months in the waters of the womb
(imagine coal miners trapped in
perpetual coal-mine for nine months,
they'd re-enter the light of day like moles,
having to wear sunglasses for the same number
of months before the eyes adjusted) -
it's no wonder that the parts of the body
passing fluids (well, **** in the form of
diarrhoea is pigeon ****) are weak...
why the ***** i'm saying...
why the mushy pulp of the apple purée
because the oesophagus is weak too and needs
to develop like bones, become hardened,
indeed these soft tissues need to become firm
paralleled with bones, baby bones are undeveloped
in terms of how we can't walk at the beginning
but crawl... forget the drawings of darwinism
of shortened historical explanation...
our's isn't with tail and hunched spine...
we're crawling...
but the pixar film inside out i will write a detailed
analysis when i see it again...
at first i can only relate one fascination...
the way we only become to actually consciously
see aged ~4... prior to that we have no
optical impression of the world with memory...
memory and seeing only enjoin
aged ~4... prior to that all the senses are based
in the unconscious, once the senses emerge from
the unconscious, actual faculties develop,
sight develops with memory...
i could say that speech develops with sounds...
but ba ba goo goo ma ma da da is actual
gibberish to consider since we become so eloquent
after, aided by the fact that we capture sounds
with phonetic optics of letters...
i'll stick my ground,
the first symbiosis is that of sight and memory,
which also becomes a symbiosis of
sight and memorising-imagination, or memory-in-itself...
and the clash of these two symbioses
creates a paradox of what actually happened
and what happened upon re-imagining...
like i said, i could expand on the theories within
inside out, with my re-evaluation as alt. outside in,
and i can say about a 1000 child psychologists could
be spawned from this single film...
but you never know, i might even theorise further
tonight once i drink enough and get a toilet break;
and bear in mind i'm about to cross the threshold
of being awake for 24 hours, after i miscalculated
my doctor's appointment for an amitriptyline (25mg)
prescription; the depth of the film is immense,
but i think it's harsh for so many psychological
undertones to be shown t children,
i think that it's a film for adults, even though
it's rated U... and indeed, more like a U-turn in
terms of thinking about life than suitable for
the under-aged
,
at first you get the early stages of child development,
by the end of the film of hopefully seeing adolescent
development, but that's cut short when
puberty obstructs sensitive sensible matters that
lead into sadomasochism in certain cases,
and in others into ****** carelessness as documented
by grooming examples in societies, like the ones
in england... or two girls today in mini-skirts with
the still cold spring nights, one ******* crouched
in an alley, the other trying to ease her on
while i walk past to finish it quickly...
i could, really could bombast you with my little
theory tool-kit... when joy becomes jealous of
sadness and wants to rob sadness of a prime memory...
the simple cutting of the umbilical chord of
being born in one place, but moving to another...
the sheer thoughtless release of tears in a classroom...
then the imaginary friend encounter...
never take short-cuts with that third cat,
third elephant, third dolphin character leading
you into the world of imagination,
the imaginary friend is actually a placebo figure in
this realm, he can't have imagined it all,
we couldn't have been the first prize pundit in it all...
he's the thief of ownership...
and then dragged into the cyst pit of those
characters real in life, celebrating your third birthday,
still blind to the world... the rainbows of life
and the darkness of the foetal mine...
the clown who's less horror but more a 5 year
student of acting reduced to cheap party tricks...
distorted not in life, but in your dreams,
as proof that you really didn't see the world
so early... you couldn't have, because if you had,
the dream world would not distort so profoundly...
and upon re-entry into the foetal position of sleep
your first 3 years are reflected in sleep...
such that when joy and sadness walked into
the realm of the imagination i thought they'd wake
the girl up by going to the cinema to watch a horror movie
like the one joy tried to block when the family
first moved to san francisco...
oh indeed the over-layering of the five crude expressions
of thought, memory and imagination...
i wonder why these chose those five...
and there was no hope among them - and hope's
triplet shapes of hope itself, love, and fear...
and when suddenly the imaginary friend dragged
the poor girl into the abyss of forgettable memories,
it dawned on me how the girl sat there holding
memories she wished to remember, a motherly
narcissism as to say: my own child...
but it felt so strange to imagine this child
holding onto memories like that, when in reality
without the five crude impressions of feelings
she would be unable to do so... this melancholic
reflection of joy suddenly dawned upon her
that the real sadness was the it too was sadness,
for if natural selection exists... so too much
cognitive selection, however dear some things are
to us... some of us have to remember
being able to give surgery, learn to drive buses,
teach mathematics... to be truly enjoined with humanity,
and not simple childish solipsists;
even as such... write poetry and weep.
Ms Tang Mar 2014
Memories like faded Monet’s

windswept pastels and periwinkles

permeate into one hour. The Blue Hour...

the hour lost in the world of egg yolks

Pirouetting the equator line

that divides

the latitude that lusted for the sun, the stars,

the cobalt sky.

with solace it longed to be departed from

The milk washed violet dreams

where vigor seeks

a meteoric silence that ushered

Azure rays igniting light

that cracks behind the clouds beaming

whispers of secrets

unveiling echoes of Gymnopedie No.1

As it dances in the breeze

The wind doused by the rhythm of

the pulsating waves by the indigo shore

Deafens my senses
   Deafens me
      Deafens my world.
Hey,
what's up,
it's not the same,
this way,
I can read what you're saying,
I can hear what you're saying,
but I can't hear you at all,
the look in your eyes is silent,
the pain in your voice is silent,
your laugh is silent,
I can't love in silence,
I cry when I realize that,
I may not hear you again.
I hate texting
one who basks in the soft heat of grandiose moonliness
growing fatter on honeyed imaginations
their sicklysweetness soaking through the pores
of countless generations
their minds invade a collective consciousness
burning arcs of inspiration – torches of the collective vision
in drilling through mutual experience
great gaping black holes of creation
effigies of super-egos, lynched on altars of desire
neon flames and disco lights, emotions on a massive pyre
maiden voyagers on never-ending cruise
sinking in foreign oceans – their endurance dupes
minor gods of destiny and fate they await
dionysian ****** of wine and food for thought
and hearts that beat in unison
a schizoid muttering that enlarges and deafens
manic pleasure that spins and spins
in eternal circles of pleasure and pain, loss  and gain
opioid mists that dream a dream of everlasting name
an addiction an obsession that sumbits
to some masochistic drive
to empathize.

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
        06.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
”The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.” - Christopher Morley
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2012
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,  
What words could never speak
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud
Two of us, alone, as one
Rapt in the spread of wings.

Later, alone we dine in the Café  
Campagne. Our conversation  
Deafens a burgeoning crowd
Coffee was nectar, our words  
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest  
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed  
By your tears.  I have always
Known you.

Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin
Your slender legs, columns that taught  
The Greeks in Helens age, touched the water  
And the sky. I saw the milky way that night.

Síneánn, I am your Pablo
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone you are the hinge  
To my casement world.  Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes  
I hold your skin, my Selkie
Sweet Niamh, I have lived  
One hundred years this week.

It is warm in the distance
In the country of the sun
We end at the house in Umbria
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.  
At the great table we feast  
With family and friends  
And I am not alone with you.
Amour de Monet May 2014
your light is beautiful
and mine is glum
in your eyes i find
sensations my estranged blood
has never felt
to touch, to love ...a soul unselfishly
for no other reason than to love

i want to place my frostbit hands
upon your beating chest
and ****** you away
or might I chain your hands
and take you with me

i could pull you into my gale
a hostage of my lonely curiosity
but I'm afraid, so afraid that your light
will fill the empty gaping blackness
and your gentle breaths
will calm my feral winds
you alone will effortlessly transpose
the thunder of my bones and
i will assent that only your nearness
can bring the calm to the eye
of my storm

but what follows when you
tire of breaking my weathers
when your chains rust into reddish ash
and i can no longer keep you, my love
i can’t imagine this place will ever be
as fair as it was with you
and i can only foresee that
which will become of me

for when the day does break
and I find myself alone
when the silence of your absent
lungs deafens my troubled mind
my storm will surge again

and as the black clouds surround
i will bring my withered hands
before me and remove the foolish eyes
that once lost themselves in you
so there are two sunken holes
inside my skull
i will cut through my sternum and
rip my dour heart from my chest
i will undress from my flesh and
pull the nerves you once caressed
and my naked soul will dig a grave
and settle into the dark
i am tired.... and i am a mess... and i am all things love and darkness at the moment. something has left me cold. i should rewrite this one day... when i'm more mind and less exhaustion.
Jamie McGarry Jan 2011
God made us brown so we'd be hard
to spot upon his fertile soil,
to hide from the birds...which he made as well...
to cower, dodge, to postpone hell.

But slug does not hide, or flinch back.
His coat?  Uncompromising BLACK.
He turns defence into attack.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God gave us shells to weigh us down.
Without them, we would HURTLE round,
so common sense suggests.  Who'd beat us,
across a distance of ten metres?

But slug, dear slug, you have the grace
to not rub freedom in our face,
to slow your stride to match our pace.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God made us quiet, thoughtful, wait.
He taught us manners, and restraint.
He taught us not to stay out late,
we're model garden citizens.

But slug, he DEAFENS when he speaks!
He goes out seven nights a week!
Beer-swilling, hard-living, party beast.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

I'd sell my soul to be like him.
Vacate my shell, and dye my skin.
I'd go twice weekly to the gym,
if doing so would let me in

to doors in town that say 'slugs only.'
But slug accepts no fake, no phony.
I'll love, but I will never be
a slug – oh glorious slug.
(c) 2009 Jamie McGarry.

Some artistic license has been taken with the colours of these animals.  In my world, snail = brown, slug = black.  I like to keep things simple.
{Chorus.} Come praise Colonus' horses, and come praise
The wine-dark of the wood's intricacies,
The nightingale that deafens daylight there,
If daylight ever visit where,
Unvisited by tempest or by sun,
Immortal ladies tread the ground
Dizzy with harmonious sound,
Semele's lad a gay companion.
And yonder in the gymnasts' garden thrives
The self-sown, self-begotten shape that gives
Athenian intellect its mastery,
Even the grey-leaved olive-tree
Miracle-bred out of the living stone;
Nor accident of peace nor war
Shall wither that old marvel, for
The great grey-eyed Athene stareS thereon.
Who comes into this countty, and has come
Where golden crocus and narcissus bloom,
Where the Great Mother, mourning for her daughter
And beauty-drunken by the water
Glittering among grey-leaved olive-trees,
Has plucked a flower and sung her loss;
Who finds abounding Cephisus
Has found the loveliest spectacle there is.
because this country has a pious mind
And so remembers that when all mankind
But trod the road, or splashed about the shore,
Poseidon gave it bit and oar,
Every Colonus lad or lass discourses
Of that oar and of that bit;
Summer and winter, day and night,
Of horses and horses of the sea, white horses.
Daniel Handschuh Oct 2015
A bird glides gracefully whilst the discolored leaves are aflutter
   In the wind that rocks the cold rotted wood of the window's shutter;
   All while the obstructive trees cause the wind’s speech to stutter.
   Yet she still howls with an intense pressure on me chest; I can barely utter
   My feelings toward this heavy air of eeriness about me—
   Nearly as heavy as the insignificance in the noose of the tree—
   A decomposed mutilation of all that is good, hung for all to see—
   A shriveled neck and half-dissolved eyes that still long to be free—
   The blood long lost, the body now pale—why does it stress?
   Why is life in its eyes, why does it shrug off Death’s caress?
   And as the sun is fully blotted by the black clouds, unfatigued,
   A hot stench like the enhancement of rotten fruit—yet I am intrigued—
   Descends upon me with the force of a vise equipped with knives—
   ‘Tis the horror of what only the spirits of the dead can contrive.
  
   And visions—horrible visions!—overwhelm me and present terrors:—!
   Rain steadily falls and patters incessantly upon an accursed Earth;
   Surrounding the hanging man are graves—and so begins the second birth:—!
   The tombstones crack and crumble into hundreds of jagged stones;
   An earthquake manifests quickly, and violently rattled my bones
   And remorselessly disembowels the Earth of the trees’ roots;
   Suddenly far more prominent is the awful stench of the fruits;
   An unsettling revelation is brought to my undivided attention:
   The tombstones’ collapse and the earthquake are not in relation,
   But the earthquake is a result of monsters unleashing their power.
   And the tombstones—but what of the tombstones’ fall?
   Startled, I see that replacing the hanging man is a voodoo doll,
   Dancing with its tiny limbs and smiling nonstop, locking its black eyes
   On my horrified self; I cringe and tremble in this demonic guise.
   A screeching note erupts from its unmoving mouth; it hovers in the air
   While I am frightfully dehumanized by the doll’s inexorable stare.
   While the screech lingers, the wet soil of the graves shifts quietly,
   The noise of splitting, wet dirt drowned out by the screech of cruelty.
   As it becomes clear the voodoo doll’s dance is one of conjuring,
   ’Tis revealed to me that the tombstones fell because of remembering:
   The dead do not believe they should be remembered, reflected upon...
   The second birth’s process is agonizingly long as I become wan.
   But before I nearly faint—and leave the visions—I receive an unwanted help:
   The doll’s gesticulations are directed toward me; even so, she raises Hell.
   My mind is frightfully clear to see all before me, and the dizziness has left.
   Oh, why these visions? Why with this horrible curse I am blessed?
  
   I am met with the most terrifying sight of all; my heart quickens.
   As the rain falls harder and begins to puddle, my blood thickens
   And very nearly ceases to flow as I watch the dead come to life.
   Gnarled fingers, some broken and some missing, ignore Death’s inflicted strife.
   Fingers—disjointed, protruding in random directions, treelike;
   Grime under the fingernails—fingernails, chipped or long spikes;
   Hardly any flesh on the old, ***** bones; muscles dripping off.
   Bodies, mutilated by natural decomposition, burst with raging coughs
   From the eviscerated Earth, black with age, red with dried blood.
   The dead, limping and holding what organs they still have, slip in the mud,
   Fall, fill their empty ribcages with it, and scream as limbs are torn away;
   Scream, as they are free from the grave, the path that led them astray.
  
   Oh, the feelings of dread that are eroding my scarred mind!
   What awful horrors have I stumbled upon, what did I find?
   One undead woman is staring at me with unfortunately soulless eyes;
   A few long hairs messily fall from her shriveled head, infested with flies,
   And her eyes—oh, her eyes!—are as small as raisins, wrinkly and white;
   They hover in her sockets, the skull only half-covered—pure fright!—
   With dead skin. Why is her toothless skull grinning mischievously?
   Is she enjoying my terror that leaves my trembling grievously?
   Abruptly, the still, deformed grotesquerie releases a sickening gurgle
   And violently shakes, as if under some overwhelming mental struggle.
   Her jaw falls open, unattended from the necessary muscles’ absence,
   And screaming laughter flows out of her agape mouth; malevolence
   Seeps from it in the form of pitchy black smoke and tightens the air.
   And all the while is still her unfailing, gut-wrenching stare!
   Her chest, dilapidated from the Earth's engulfment of her, explodes—
   A black skeletal hand, emerging from the body that was its abode—
   A demon, a black skeleton, blood gushing from its mouth, fire in its eyes—
   And tattered wings spread as the screamer takes to the hellish skies.
   It hovers around the dancing voodoo doll, circling her,
   Worshipping the smiling thing that was sewn with maleficence and fear.
  
   “But what are these things?” I ask as the undead congregate.
   “Is this how horrible life will be beyond Hell’s gates?”
   But it is made revealed to me that the people are eternal
   Inhabitants of Hell—Hell inside me; the spiritual realm is internal.
   “Why do they gather around the doll and bow in submission?”
   But, to my dismay, there is no answer to this deathly war of attrition.
  
   “Vultures!” I hear, a thunderous, wicked voice from up above.
   “You do not know what you are to believe, or what to love!”
   The dead dance in slow, uncoordinated movements, circling
   The doll. Even the shadows ominously flicker, no longer lurking.
   The black demon floats and gestures to the moaning dead,
   Beckoning them to rise from their permanent deathbeds
   To chant and flail their measly arms in worship of the voodoo.
   What have I done to be cast into this dangerous world askew?
   “You are a vulture, searching helplessly for something to feast
   “When the desperate hunger is turning you into the demons’ beast.
   “And when the food is gone, you search for your next dying idol.
   “For you, the inevitable conquest for falsities will never be final.”
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
  
   The room of a once peaceful dwelling is a victim of an apocalypse:—
   ‘Tis as if it has mutated into the imagery of a drug’s dangerous trip:—
   The walls are bent in, threatening to collapse under the pressure;
   Books are shredded, shelves are upturned, and obliterated is the dresser;
   Blood drips from numerous cracks in the ceiling and paints the walls.
   ‘Tis many moments of being awestruck before I realize the mirror calls.
   Vision is blurry, a hollow ringing sings, and my surroundings fade.
   My legs of jelly drag my heavy body into the dark hall’s shade.
  
   I yell at the sight in the cracked mirror, but my voice is painfully missing.
   It appears as if my entire face is losing its grip and is slowly slipping.
   Gravity’s grappling hooks have taken a strong hold and are pulling.
   The entirety of my eyes is almost visible from the disturbing lack of coverage.
   My jaw refuses to rise back up, as if the muscles have lost their leverage.
   It adds to the terror—how unsightly I am! How revolting!
   I am no longer human but an otherworldly, disgusting being!
   A scream that is not my own bursts from my agape mouth and shatters the mirror.
   It deafens my ears like a knife; I feel the fiery tearing of my vocal cords.
   “Vulture,” I vaguely hear but clearly curl my dry, thin lips to.
   “Go, find your food, find your idol, bathe in what you think is true.”
   Violently, desperately, crashing into walls with wild, uncontrollable limbs,
   I purposelessly search for the spirit that will welcome my immovable sins.
Yes, it's gory and has some disturbing elements in it, but I use these to instill certain emotions into the readers. On other forums, I'm known for how frankly I put my words, so if you enjoyed this, expect me to post more without being afraid to say anything.
Mary McCray Apr 2014
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 10, 2014)


During dinner, while the noise of too many swimmers
deafens Mr. Kingfish, he says to his wife, Mrs. Kingfish,
“This is what happens when too many so-called ‘swimmers’
dilute the souk and gum up the lake.”

Mr. and Mrs. Kingfish dine on minnows
as she concurs, “You question their legitimacy, dear.”
“Yes I do!” “You question what swimming is
if everyone tries to do it?—

who is allowed, what value is added
by all these new “swimmers” swimming through.”
“Yes, that is what I’m saying: don’t go near the water,
until you learn how to swim!”

“They’re bottom-feeders ruining everything,”
decides Mr. Kingfish. His wife squeezes his arm
and says, “Then let’s get small, dear.
There’s entirely too much swimming going on all around.”

“We need gatekeepers, tighter schools,” cries Mr. Kingfish,
“or we’ll all suffocate!” Spitting out tiny fish heads in the sand,
Mrs. Kingfish assures her husband, “All will be well that ends well.
But I do wonder, love, what about the turning tide?”
axr Apr 2014
We are so far away from each other,
but something keeps us close.
Honey, we are not gonna last forever
and this isn't a joke.
Seeing your name flash makes my day
but can't you see that I am scared?
If I come any closer,
it would be a big mistake.
I know I made promises
and couldn't fulfill all of them
but darling you don't know
That my world is a complete mayhem.
If I come closer,
Will you welcome me in your trap?
The day I say forever,
Will you leave me and never come back?
The silence between us deafens me.
When I think about you,
something inside suffocates me.
I want you to look past this ugly body of mine.
Take my heart which beats for you,
and look me in the eye.
Can't look past the shame and guilt.
Deep down inside I know the chances are slim.
And I hate myself for not knowing that loving you was a sin.
Achick Sep 2021
After opening the jar, all the undoing's of mankind. I witness anxiety bring fear to mankind. As anxiety flew away I heard the bellowing cries in the distance. The bellowing sobbing and horrifying gasp from mankind they tried to pick themselves up off the ground. In my *****, I felt pain. A sharp intense pain. Like Zeus himself reached into my ***** and squeezed my beating heart. My heart filled with so much sorrow. The sorrow flowed to my eyes, warm tears trickled down my cheeks.

Evil clawed its way to the top of the jar. Evil, such a terrifying and ugly creature. It leaped from my jar and into the sky like Pegasus when he sprang from Medusa’s empty neck. Evil was swift and full of purpose as it flew into the sky. Evil looked back at me. My jaws clenched and teeth grind together. My eyes watered from dryness. I hadn’t noticed I wasn't blinking. The burn in my eyes was nothing compared to the unimaginable evil that was unleashed onto mankind. I wanted to close the jar. I couldn't disobey Zeus. If I did, it would bring me a fate far worse than Prometheus. What can be worse? What could possibly be worse than a giant eagle eating me alive for eternity?

I tried to look away. I didn't want to see the last plague on mankind. A smell filled the air and twisted my stomach. A stench of rotting flesh and death. Disease oozed out of the jar next. I dropped the jar while desperately trying to close it. Falling to my knees, breath stolen from my lungs. Gagging and gasping for air. Dark black mist filling every crack and crevice. The dark dank mist slowly crept further away spreading and consuming the light in all living things. As the plants and trees withered away, a part of me also died. I wanted so much to embrace the arms of hades, I wanted to give my light in exchange for theirs. What have I done? This is why you created me Zeus, out of spite!

Just then, I heard the jar move, I watched the jar jump and fell over. Over and over again. Something is desperately trying to escape. I remembered Zeus told me to close the jar right after disease escaped. Pushing myself from the ground I reached out for my jar. I held it close as I pried open the jar. I tried with all of my might. Clawing and prying the lid wouldn’t budge. Ignoring the demands of Zeus. No punishment, nor torture can be worse then the feelings I just felt. I’ve unleashed doom to all of mankind. I will be for eternity the one who brought doom to mankind. I lifted the jar above my head, tears streaming down my face, a fierce rage burning inside me. I yelled at the sky. Do as you will! Do as you must! Rip me apart as you were the one who put me together. I am no puppet! You will not control my fate any longer! I threw the jar to the ground, shattering into pieces.

A tiny speck of light flutters before me. It’s shining light embraces my face and I cup it in my hands. Watching it flutter, the sky grew black. The clouds rumbled, the earth shuddered. A loud crack deafens my ears, the bright light in my hands shot into my chest and then up to the sky. Zeus appeared from the clouds. Pulling my body towards him in the sky. “Why did you disobey me? Have you learned nothing from Prometheus?” The anger in his voice shook my core. I watched my feet slowly turning into ashes. A white fire slowly engulfed my limbs. Zeus screamed “do you know what you had done!” I replied “Zeus I will suffer for mankind. I will not be their undoing any longer” Zeus replied in a smug mocking tone “as you wish ephemeral”.

Zeus watched as my body turned into ashes. Before the flames embraced my face. I realized that light was hope. I released hope from her captive state. Hope is free for all of mankind to have and to hold. I fixed my last gaze upon Zeus and with my dying breath. I whispered “I know what I did. I know what it is and what it can do. I hope all of mankind will too.”
I wrote this for my Greek Mythology class. This is my take on how hope was released to mankind.
The uniVerse Oct 2017
The silence it deafens me
with violence they threaten me
to carry me off to an asylum
unless I can provide them
with an ulterior motive
till I hand in my notice
relinquish the chains upon my bed
the fiendish brain inside my head
deviously plotting my own demise
take leave from this place to warmer tides
bathe my body beneath calmer skies
naked like the day I drew breath
naked as I stare upon death
one hand holding a crooked scythe
the other beckoning to me, my life
did you forget to count the die?
or forgo the countless lies
that made the Countess cry
neither man nor mystery could change her path
so it's left to me to rearrange the past
jigsaw pieces scattered upon my pillow
connecting dots to draw the willow
who could forget the weeping widow
that cried herself to sleep.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BzgaX_GHJRE/
Jo Barber Jul 2018
If the work breaks your back,
then laying down shall be all the sweeter.
And if the noise deafens your ears,
then listen for what cannot be said.
If your skin grows raw from the sun,
make all your touches light and gentle.
If the food tastes of filth,
find joy instead in the fullness of your belly.
If the air is polluted with cigarettes and gas,
plant a flower to fill your nose with sweetness.

If you find yourself alone,
just focus on finding yourself first.
If you are unable to live for yourself,
live for others.
Cristin H May 2015
You died on a Monday.

Nobody likes Mondays.
But this day was the first of the longest week there has ever been
or will ever be.
Days dragging their feet like my heart across the pavement.
Please save your questions, comments, and complaints,
I'm trying to wrap my head around dead dreams and saints
Wondering
how the faint cries echoing through my insides
sound
to strangers
and soulmates.

You died on a Tuesday.

Such an unassuming day for departing
Nothing happens on a Tuesday.
Until her phone rang,
We were parked outside of our favorite restaurant
I heard the world flatline to the sound of traffic
We stayed in the car.
Now parked on the roof of patient parking,
Though I had never felt less patient  
wondering
How the ******* sun can shine when you can't even breathe.
I watched my mother cry until she wouldn't in front of you.
we COULDN'T in front of you.
I promised.
But we did.

You died on a Wednesday.

A day like a life, only halfway through and it's forgotten itself.  
Like I had forgotten the heaviest my heart has ever felt
was the night I looked into my sisters eyes
and spoke like doctors,
Wore the words "there's nothing left to do" like they had ever even come close to answering the question
WHY?
Which was the only one she could get out
WHY?
They said he could have up to a year
WHY?
Or as little as a week.

You died on a Thursday.

The day so wrapped up in the promise of tomorrow,
we can only ever think about yesterday.
Throwback to any single moment before this day.
Throwback to 5 days before
watching the irony of a birthday cake in hospice
While I wondered
how many wishes it would take to keep you.
Throwback to the moment that we were alone
when you grabbed me by the collar,
So tight and so close
I could smell heaven on your breath,
As you squeezed a plea into a whisper
Get
Me
Out
Of Here.
I was silent.
But I swear to god I was screaming at the top of my heart.
And I am sorry every single day
that I had no way
to wheel, walk, or wish you out.

You died on a Friday.

I had never been further from TGIF-ing
I was busy wondering why
and begging for your breath back.
You hadn't said a word in days,
your eyelids hung heavy like sheets off an empty bed,
but when mom would whisper our names into your ear
I watched every ounce of strength you had
stand shoulder to shoulder
forcing your eyes open in bursts
like the fourth of july finale
we could hear from your bedroom.
You were a god in each goodbye,
While the blue drained from each your eyes
for us to paint our days with.

You died on a Saturday.

I thought the weekend had a deathwish
showing up like it belonged in our bereavement,
like this week would ever end,
like it hadn't heard the news.
Every night was a silent struggle
we couldn't stay,
but wouldn't go.
The night before we had collapsed into a pile on hard-backed chairs
At the mercy of the nurses who didn't have the heart to make us go,
or just enough
to let us stay.
I didn't sleep a wink that night,
I was busy listening to the human hum of our family set to the slowing beep of your vitals
and wondering,
if the grass you'll lie under will know where it came from.
But this night,
this night there was a quiet compliance
an air of understanding in our war-torn bodies

besides,
nothing happens after midnight.
Until my phone rang.

You died on a Sunday.

You were holier than any day of the year.
I don't know if you let go
or if dying always feels like drowning.
Drowning.
Like I was in every drop of water your skin couldn't hold in anymore.
Like my mother was in disbelief.
Like my grandmother was in desperation.
Like my sister was in sadness.
Our family
drowning
And not one of us moving.


You died every day that week,
and you've died every day since.
You died on her wedding day
and at my graduation
You die on your birthday
and on every anniversary
and every single day that we have to deal
with an absence so great that it deafens.
And all I can do is wonder,
what the time difference is in heaven,
and how many sleeps it will be before I see you again.
I wonder if the angels recognized you.
And how you hid your wings
so well
for so long.

But mostly I wonder,
if you wonder too.
Zac Baker Feb 2015
A thunderous silence deafens the night
until wild wolves’ melancholy melody
heralds the ebony darkness
born at the coming of the moon.

Trees are plunged into the void of nightfall,
the whispers of twilight awaken
as the presence of pale moonlight
pierces the wisps of solemn clouds.

The lunar light defies the darkness,
and melts into the dense mist
leaving silvery light hovering over the landscape,
banishing the decay of midnight’s umbra.
Louise Dee Jan 2014
I need
Your smell
To fill
The air
That
Poisons me

I need
Your voice
To fill
The silence
That
Deafens me

I need
Your touch
To fill
The emptiness
That
Consumes me

I need
Your heart
To fill
The loneliness
That
Kills me
theo holland Oct 2011
I am Private and he is mine.
  I see him follow in the feet of the other men  
  when his white eyes are turned so is his face  
  he sits in an aisle behind a glass too straight  
  I call to him but the glass is too thick  
  I am he and he is I so how can the separation be stopped  
  my heart is pattering and he sees it  
  a small bird wakes in the nest  
  eyes open  
  the cold salt  

It is all over yet only to those who remember  
  there is always the now if the then was kept forgotten  
  the then is me and he is the now  
  the others stand around us with long hair
  one has white eyes and skin too cool  
  he is dead and standing
most stand in lines straight on forever  
  some turn around in small shuffles  
  some glance over one shoulder slowly  
  those most eat and drink and eat and drink and eat and drink  
  there is nothing to eat no space to turn and no features to see  
  we look and move and eat to go  
  the one with the white eyes and the skin too cool knows but cannot die fully  
  he first scared me and now he is here
we are here and there  
  he and I  
  the one with the skin too cool too  
  the small bird cries out on the edge of the nest as the wind whips around  
  it cannot fall so alone  
  we cannot see it fall  
  there is no space and nothing to eat  
  the white eyes drift away with no movement  
  they seem to be searching

We sit now  
  although surrounded there is no one around  
  the glass is too thick 
  I can hear the thoughts of the others and he can hear their actions
  the walls seem to go on forever
  forever blocking the light
  his light
  the whites of his eyes signaling recognition and reflection  
  the light allows his sight to see me through the glass  
  he is mine  
  he is not dead  
  I am he  
  the cold salt  
  the pattering heart holds me still and devours me
  I am not dead  
  take that heart away from me so I do not wrench it from you  
  the others look on and see nothing for there is nothing  
  it is only in my pattering heart  
  the bird sees something on the ground in the shape of a open heart  
  the bird falls to the other  
  the cold salt

Before I felt him  
  I tried to save him but the glass was too thick  
  the aisle was too crowded before and now it is too  
  everyone dressed in their best black but wearing nothing of meaning  
  they are the same the others  
  I patter at the one sided glass  
  he cannot hear me  
  the darkness of the shadow hides me from him  
  the shadow of the cross deafens him to the birds song  
  I am he and I cannot hear me  
  I pray for the book under the aisle to be true  
  I pray he will see me soon  
  I pray my prayers are needless  
  he wants his pattering heart  
  I want the cold salt on the cheeks of the best black dressed    
  the bird has no cold salt left    
  the fall took them away  
  the heart shaped ground stopped the cold salt forever
before the men and the women were together and now they are the same  
  the one man with the white eyes moves closer  
  I like his skin too cool  
  the buildings mixed and separated them  
  together was complicated  
  together and alone was complex  
  he is large  
  yet there is space for me  
  when he is I cannot be touched  
  no one knows he is dead and I am alive  
  they do not remember  
  that small bird feels another    
  the cold salt and skin too cool

I am still alone but with him alive  
  here is where I can see him  
  this place too small is where I wait  
  I saw him in the rain and fell to him  
  the bird fell to the pattering heart  
  he is still down there  
  his skin too cool and his eyes too white  
  I want those eyes  
  they smile up at me through the lighted glass even  
  the skin too cool reaches me and I am fed  
  there is no food but his skin  
  there is no sight but his eyes  
  he is the smile   
 I am the happiness  
  I am him  
  the bird smiled on the way to the heart shaped ground  
  it hit the ground and the cold salt stopped  
  the cold salt
the ground hits
  the pattering of my heart beats all the louder against his one sided glass  
  now illuminated
  the light warms his heart and cold salt 
  it patters in time with the rain   harder and harder like the ground the bird hits 
  over and over until his patters with mine 
  he is me
  he is mine 
  his cold salt 
  I miss those 
  I lose them to rain down on him and he feels their sound 
  he is not the smile now 
  I feel his heart pattering 
  mine patters the hardest against his glass too thick and too straight now lit 
  in this room too small surrounded by the others but without him I am alone 
 I am his happiness 
  I want his skin too cool and eyes too white 
  I am his smile 
  the cold salt and the skin and the eyes and the smile are me
he was lost to me one too many times
  my not dead man was kept hidden behind a glass too thick and too straight 
  I cannot see what is hidden even though I am hiding 
  the others sway now   there is no room in here to move 
  the ground is gone 
  the small bird sings 
  he is mine 
  he looked up when I first pattered on the glass 
  he saw nothing 
  he was not going to then without the light 
  now the cold salt illuminates the pattering heart 
  his cold salt
  
I am sitting at the top of a building in the rain 
  the rain falls just as the bird and my heart 
  the ground fast approaches 
  a glass too straight through which I see him 
  he is alone in his room 
  the one with the skin too cool 
  his heart now pattering through his wrists 
  it falls and patters like mine did and does for him here 
  I want my skin too cool
the best dressed do not want to really see him 
  they do not want to see me 
  so they remember 
  I am in a room too small wanting his skin too cool
the others with the long hair carry ropes in their hands or a gun or a bottle 
  we are all in a room together but cannot fit 
  there is no room 
  there is no light 
  the aisle is now empty and the glass is still too thick 
  I am he 
  I walk 
  the cold salt drops 
  I am not dead until we are all dead 
  he is dead the room was too small and could fit no one 
  the small bird loved his skin too cool 
  the man sees the small bird jump for him 
  I am the bird 
  I am the man 
  he is me 
  he is mine 
  I have his skin too cool and now pattering heart  I am here 
  the cold salt falls now with his smile and my happiness



Private, he my friend.
He mine.
See.
  He come back to me even now.
  I don’t have to tell him anything, he knows.
  They all looked at me, but to him I say nothing, nothing needs to be said.
  He reached safety and came back for me.
  His love penetrated, and now mine patters even more.
  I cried cold tears when I saw him fall.
They never left my cheeks and he dried them.
  I see him in my room and play with him like all friends.
  The church glass was the last place I saw him.
  Wet with rain from my tears he was a bird, broken and small.
  Sundays were hard for him and me.
  I had love for him in the pattering of my heart.
  I tell him that over and over now, and he understands.
  He my friend.
  The one I only have tears for anymore, even after the rainy day took them from me;
  after his body reminded me of the small bird on the ground under the nests.
  He did not come back to the school or to his home, but to me.
  I am his pattering heart, only fully opened now.
  I don’t have to explain that the men and priest made me into this.
  They took my love and warred against it.
  They told me to feel this and not that.
  Love was red and boys were blue.
  Now I know why the stained glass which separated me and him was all colors.
  Now I’ll be on the lookout.
  I tell Private what a new winter this shall be, another one to warm my cool skin.
  We’ll be warm together, Private.
  Private.
  I don’t remember the verses of the Lord.
  The black book under the pews, those hated aisles, have no rememory to me.
  All is he, and he is mine.
  We would be one again, you tell me in my room late at night.
  Private came back to me by falling, like the baby birds on the farm under the nests too high.
  You warm my skin and catch my tears.
  You got close and I am now.
  When you fell I wanted to lay with you and now I can.
  My pattering heart and its contents now flow freely from the arms longing to hold you again.
  I am close. 
  I should have been close then.
  I wanted to.
  Nowhere I had lain in peace since the rain and the fall.
  Now I can lie like the birds and their young.
  He come back to me, Private, my friend, and he is mine.
Let me dispel now the allegations that will surely follow: this is a piece written in the poetic form of Toni Morrison from her novel "Beloved" and is in no way meant to plagiarize, but rather to build on the genius of her work.
Paul R Mott Feb 2013
A fool sits alone.  
Not dumb but naïve
drinking ideals that were both sweet
and biting on the uvula of his thoughts-
thoughts that once resonated
from truth no longer ring true.

This terminus of sentiments that started veritable journeys
in the muck of questionable sources
housed his hopes
while he dared to dream of a day these hopes may be fulfilled.

But over hills and plains filled with grating winds
of inquiring eyes looking for lies so intently
while false truth slips through their gates,
these hopes gained grit.

Grit built in truth,
and to hazier eyes,
grit grained with wisdom.  

So our fool finds himself at a
beginning wrought from this inverted journey,
He’s discovered his truths to be soggy
with the living mire of human deception.

No longer does he sit
with starry eyes
hoping for truth,
he has found it by traveling backwards
through experience until he stands upright
amongst the crawling with lies filling his head.

It is in this moment when all he sees is deceit,
that he knows he has found the truth.
No longer does he believe in it,
he understands how ill-fitting that word has come to be.  

In the grand cacophony of the human experience,
the sterling ring of truth deafens.

It takes a qualified lie to reach our hearts.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2012
I am alone with you. 
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces 
As before in the empty cinema, 
Where we arrived, at some beginning, 
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes, 
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,  
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air 
And the moony screen, 
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings. 

Later, alone we dine in the Café  
Campagne. Our conversation  
Deafens a burgeoning crowd, 
Coffee was nectar, our words  
Were whispering petals. 
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest  
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean 
In your eyes, I was cleansed  
By your tears.  I have always 
Known you. 

Across the border on the far island, 
You stepped into the waters with me 
And when you disrobed you lit the stars 
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin, 
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night. 

Síneánn, I am your Pablo, 
We are two white birds sailing 
Over the foam of the sea. 
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world.  Rain petal 
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman, 
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived  
One hundred years this week. 

It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word 
Siberia, my light Rosaleen. 
Now is harvest time.  
At the great table we feast  
With family and friends  
And I am not alone with you.
i lean against an oak tree in a glade
to watch apollo fall behind the hill,
the sunlight in the west begins to fade,
as evening closes in, a sudden chill.
the nightingale sings songs of yesterday
an arching song that lifts my spirits high,
the robin in the branches drills a lay,
as sunset breathes and reaches to the sky.
the sunlight falls in opal on the ground,
a song of heaven, darkness has no place,
the world is hushed with hardly any sound
and i can sense her passion and her grace
  and still the sunlight drifting through the leaves,
  holds back the last of day that darkness weaves.

that darkness weaves, that churlish empty sound,
which deafens moments reaching in their gold,
desire or dream, the chains that hold us bound,
the drowning spirit lifts and then is bold.
while nature rests her head upon the land
and bird song fills the avenues of trees,
her vision is ethereal and grand,
a haunting inspiration on the breeze.
i'll echo songs of summer centuries,
that mock and hint their ebony array,
the wind calls out like wild and distant seas
as through the peaceful glade the light of day,  
   that held its last soft breath of falling light,
   in hollow sorrows dreams of quiet night.

the soul finds solace, time enough to rest,
the beauty of the earth is here to see
and where the light still lingers in the west,
i see a glimpse of sweet eternity.
so blindly now the day will sink and fall,
the light that holds the tenderness recedes
and my lost hopes their last enchantment call,
as that last glimpse of daylight leaves the meads.
while questions of the heart flow like a stream,
with tender echoed strings that fall so far,
as cheery revelations clear the dream,
of softly fallen evening's gentle star.
   so with imagination’s dying spark
   the day so leaves us here the tranquil dark.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2013
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,  
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.

Later, alone we dine in the Café  
Campagne. Our conversation  
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words  
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest  
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed  
By your tears.  I have always
Known you.

Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.

Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world.  Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived  
One hundred years this week.

It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.  
At the great table we feast  
With family and friends  
And I am not alone with you.
Blodeuwedd is the Welsh Goddess of spring created from flowers.  In the late Christianized myth, She was created by the great magicians Math and Gwydion to be Lleu's mate, in response to a curse pronounced by his mother that he would never have a wife from any race then on the Earth. They fashioned Blodeuwedd from flowers and breathed life into Her.  In Welsh, blodeuwedd, meaning "Flower-face", is a name for the owl.

She represents temporary beauty and the bright blooming that must come full circle through death: She is the promise of autumn visible in spring.

Pronunciation: bluh DIE weth ("th" as in "weather")  Alternate spellings: Blodeuedd, Blodewedd.

Selkies (also known as silkies or selchies) are mythological creatures found in Faroese,Icelandic, Irish, and Scottish folklore. The word derives from earlier Scots selich, (from Old English seolh meaning seal). Selkies are said to live as seals in the sea but shed their skin to become human on land. The legend apparently originated on the Orkney and Shetland Islands and is very similar to those of swan maidens.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2013
I am alone with you.
A fire burns in the distance,
It lights our faces
As before in the empty cinema,
Where we arrived, at some beginning,
To watch a foreign film. Our eyes,
In new utterance, murmuring subtitles,  
What words could never speak,
The tips of seats, rows of air
And the moony screen,
A tableau of feathers and cloud,
Two of us, alone, as one,
Rapt in the spread of wings.

Later, alone we dine in the Café  
Campagne. Our conversation  
Deafens a burgeoning crowd,
Coffee was nectar, our words  
Were whispering petals.
Dearest Blodeuwedd, I saw the sweetest  
Sorrow on your face, the green ocean
In your eyes, I was cleansed  
By your tears.  I have always
Known you.

Across the border on the far island,
You stepped into the waters with me
And when you disrobed you lit the stars
And the stars and my eyes kissed your skin,
Your slender legs, columns, tilting
Toward heaven, in the age of Helen,
Touched the water and the sky,
I saw the milky way that night.

Síneánn, I am your Pablo,
We are two white birds sailing
Over the foam of the sea.
Solvent to my stone, you are the hinge
To my casement world.  Rain petal
Voice, lithe, alabaster woman,
I am lost in your Sargasso eyes,
I hold your skin, my Selkie,
Sweet Niamh, I have lived  
One hundred years this week.

It is warm in the distance,
In the country of the sun,
We end at the house in Umbria,
In the autumn, there is no word
Siberia, my light Rosaleen.
Now is harvest time.  
At the great table we feast  
With family and friends  
And I am not alone with you.
Blodeuwedd is the Welsh Goddess of spring created from flowers.  In the late Christianized myth, She was created by the great magicians Math and Gwydion to be Lleu's mate, in response to a curse pronounced by his mother that he would never have a wife from any race then on the Earth. They fashioned Blodeuwedd from flowers and breathed life into Her.  In Welsh, blodeuwedd, meaning "Flower-face", is a name for the owl.

She represents temporary beauty and the bright blooming that must come full circle through death: She is the promise of autumn visible in spring.

Pronunciation: bluh DIE weth ("th" as in "weather")  Alternate spellings: Blodeuedd, Blodewedd.



Selkies (also known as silkies or selchies) are mythological creatures found in Faroese,Icelandic, Irish, and Scottish folklore. The word derives from earlier Scots selich, (from Old English seolh meaning seal). Selkies are said to live as seals in the sea but shed their skin to become human on land. The legend apparently originated on the Orkney and Shetland Islands and is very similar to those of swan maidens.
Vivid with love, eager for greater beauty
Out of the night we come
Into the corridor, brilliant and warm.
A metal door slides open,
And the lift receives us.
Swiftly, with sharp unswerving flight
The car shoots upward,
And the air, swirling and angry,
Howls like a hundred devils.
Past the maze of trim bronze doors,
Steadily we ascend.
I cling to you
Conscious of the chasm under us,
And a terrible whirring deafens my ears.

The flight is ended.

We pass thru a door leading onto the ledge—
Wind, night and space
Oh terrible height
Why have we sought you?
Oh bitter wind with icy invisible wings
Why do you beat us?
Why would you bear us away?
We look thru the miles of air,
The cold blue miles between us and the city,
Over the edge of eternity we look
On all the lights,
A thousand times more numerous than the stars;
Oh lines and loops of light in unwound chains
That mark for miles and miles
The vast black mazy cobweb of the streets;
Near us clusters and splashes of living gold
That change far off to bluish steel
Where the fragile lights on the Jersey shore
Tremble like drops of wind-stirred dew.
The strident noises of the city
Floating up to us
Are hallowed into whispers.
Ferries cross thru the darkness
Weaving a golden thread into the night,
Their whistles weird shadows of sound.

We feel the millions of humanity beneath us,—
The warm millions, moving under the roofs,
Consumed by their own desires;
Preparing food,
Sobbing alone in a garret,
With burning eyes bending over a needle,
Aimlessly reading the evening paper,
Dancing in the naked light of the café,
Laying out the dead,
Bringing a child to birth—
The sorrow, the torpor, the bitterness, the frail joy
Come up to us
Like a cold fog wrapping us round.
Oh in a hundred years
Not one of these blood-warm bodies
But will be worthless as clay.
The anguish, the torpor, the toil
Will have passed to other millions
Consumed by the same desires.
Ages will come and go,
Darkness will blot the lights
And the tower will be laid on the earth.
The sea will remain
Black and unchanging,
The stars will look down
Brilliant and unconcerned.

Beloved,
Tho’ sorrow, futility, defeat
Surround us,
They cannot bear us down.
Here on the abyss of eternity
Love has crowned us
For a moment
Victors.
PrttyBrd Dec 2012
Silence screams its cries of pain
Realized only in the darkest corners
Flashes of electric blue bear witness
The crack shatters the silence
And deafens the pain...momentarily
Caught off guard, the tempest shifts
Whirling cyclone through smokey heart
Dust clouds of ancient barricades crumbling
The darkness grows to an eclipse
Quietly, patiently, time passes so slowly it seems to rewind
Footsteps softened, neigh, silenced by the thickening dust
It settles quickly, as mottled shades of gray
Begin replacing the true absence of light
Sliver by blinding sliver it penetrates
Searing, in it's obtrusive insistence
Piercing both heart and soul
Killing the blind peace
With hope disguised as fear
Copyright ©PrttyBrd16\12\12
Llila Jul 2016
I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I  once shared,
  some could say that we still share them,
  it would be difficult for me to disagree.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
   your life hangs in the balance,
   tipping ever so slightly into the unknown.
We share the same name
    and although I have tried in vain to change mine,
     it still sticks,
     lingering on old tongues,
     leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  you sit, waiting for whatever will come next,
  you watch me with curious eyes, as if i know the answer to your questions,
and it pains me to tell you that I do not.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  we are a magnificent circus duo,
   I, the ventriloquist and you my mindless drone,
  or you the ventriloquist and I, all alone.
  Our audience laugh at our shared torment and
  I, I laugh as well at the situation we have created.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  and though we share the same name,
  the same face,
  I fear we are no longer the same.
You are a reflection of what used to be,
  of what is now forgotten
   and fading away,
   as though you never existed in the first place.

And, I , I am the aftermath,
  The desolation after an explosion,
  I am the one who was left behind to pick up the pieces.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I hold you close to my heart,
close enough that the pounding of my being deafens you,
and the shaking of my rib cage engulfs you.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I tell myself that it is to protect you ,
but in reality I know that I am crushing you.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I  once shared.
But now you are gone and yet I still remain.
Those memories intact but not looking the same.
I'm not too sure about this one.
Amelie M-J Dec 2013
This silence deafens me,
Surrounded by recurring faces,
In a room flooded with sound-
Yet I've never felt so alone

But I can't escape my mind,
Cannot run in the labyrinth of my soul;
Out of breath- yet so alive-
My imagination unleashed
into the ebony void of oblivion.

A key- no lock, a door- no handle,
Follow my footprints, I beg you please!
But they're invisible-
Washed away by the moonlit tide.

Painted masks, reflections and shadows
are all they see, yet why don't they realise?

I try to yell- and they're all listening,
Yet my scarlet voice fails to reach their ears.
Because no one can save me now- except myself.
And that's out of the question.

Read between the lines of an empty page-
Separated by slim yet strong walls of emotion,
This is my battle- of which I must fight.
I won't win, but what does that matter?

Stretched out empty hands
and the shards of a broken mirror,
The silent waters break my reflection.
And I have never looked more beautiful.

My pen has long since become hungry for ink-
Yet I still write
with the tears seeping from my eyes,
Long into the eternal night-
When the stars and I have drowned in the moons embrace.

And now, as the rain dances upon my window like piano keys,
I appear just as I should.
A swirl of ink. A jigsaw puzzle. Myself.

For my body does not own me,
Nor do I have the right to change it-
But still, I continue to do so.
For I need a slender frame. I need the scars.
But however much I long for them- they are out of my reach.

So no- I am not my body.
Merely a whisper of the wind,
An invisible footprint in the sand.

And my brain and my imagination
they merge together in a pallet of grey and rainbow,
Until all I have left to clasp onto
are the hands of time, and my steady heartbeat.
Two worlds collide- Enemies embrace.
Bridges collapse and tunnels cave in.

The impossible has been accomplished-
and I don't want it to stop.

What.
Have.
I.
Become?
Alexander S Mar 2010
I said a million simple things
That I loved about you
In the middle of October
Were you listening?

I gave my heart a pen
And let it write
A million simple things
That I felt about you
Were You Reading?

My fingers ran by themselves
A dose of cuteness here and there
Small, but apparent
Were You watching?

Simple replies speak volumes
And the absence speaks louder
What do I have to do to reach you?
What pervades my writing
That you won’t comment unless I ask?

Which lyrics speak to you and which don’t?
Should I send them, should I not?
It seems to make little difference.
Either way your silence deafens.
You want cuteness
But have little to say when I try to give it.

I don’t send these things, I don’t write these things for nothing
I do it for us.
An attempt
To intertwine us further.
To see what different pulses of my heart…
…Inspire different pulses of yours.
For your reaction, your passion.
But you often have too little to say

A million simple things
A song, a poem
Sent across the miles
To make me feel closer to you

If only, if only
You had
Even a hundred simple things to say about them.

If only, if only
I knew my heartbeat was heard

Sometimes the most important
Is a million simple things.
CH Gorrie Mar 2013
Geraniums wilt into the bedrock
behind a treehouse the canyon knew.
The lanterns have extinguished.
Crow in the ****** overhead sifts
downward. Below the trundled dune,
poppy after poppy -- hidden in mantling dust --
deafens in its own rustle. Where
is the moon today? Where
does the sky end and wrap
inside its craters?
A caw splits the wind in a palm,
drives it through a lantern's smoke.

We used to watch the lanterns wane
before calling it a night.

We used to put bees in jars
before pulling our blankets up.

We used to sing old gospel songs
before getting out of bed.


I feel older than an ancient discipline,
I swear I was like this before I was born,
I'm trying to discredit my happiness,
but I'm as aimless as ever...
reflectionzero Apr 2014
When I wake in the morning
The emptiness of my room deafens me.
I rise from my bed,
And feet never touch the floor.
My stomach pangs
My head bangs,
And I float.

When I wake in the morning
I have thoughts of you
I fall back asleep
Pull up the sheets
And pretend that they were true.

When I wake in my madness
I wish I would eat.
For I am a fool  
And it is our sadness,
that makes us complete.

-r0
I look up at the skylight
Rain drops coalescing
The reflection of a few drops
Dancing on the wall
In the breeze
Which is more
A gale
Howling and loud
Outside
Destroying trees
Somewhere

A silvery strand of a cobweb
Dances and shimmers
In the pale sun
Playing hide and seek
The silence in my room
So loud
The thunder outside
So far

The daffodils on my windowsill
Have died and dried
Papery petals, a brilliant amber now
Green stalks greedily still drinking
While the petals thirst
The tops of the trees
Through my window
Freshly showered
Move like a woman
Dancing for her lover
Seducing
Shimmying

And yet
I think of Delhi
Desertlike and brown
Hostile and cruel
The dirt streaked faces
The shining eyes
Of the beggar children
At crossings
The eunuchs who bully
The traffic, the fumes
The noise that deafens
The rich women who flaunt
Diamonds and lovers
The clubs for the haves
The stares from the have-nots
And I come back
To the music of the rain
On the skylight
And the chirp of a bird
Somewhere far away
Connor Reid Apr 2014
Corroding off in wreckless control
Repeated lines stretching infinitely in ambiguity
Sharp muscle relaxant mistakes
As we career off the road
Into a ravenous singularity
We are unforgiving, cynical yet synthetically joyous
Quick to pardon
Whipped with a gold leash
Delicate, leaves, Celtic music
Rubik's cubes in our throats
We're ready to let love in, willing
Nova tech, drunk masks and indication
Indignation, we clutch, we fail
Partial to conditions
Stones out of focus

Accelerate
Engines bleed borders
You are the free way
Impotent with quartz remnants
Ruins to our fantasy
You hide history
Covered in my burrow
Braking until necks break & bags burst
Powdered hair, liquid lips
Let's drive home
Go beyond the limit
Break each others bones
And crush our entities
Suffocate on suffixes
Her explanation acquits the doubt
As we appear closer than we may actually be
Industrial stacks stretch towards invisibility
Letting go of their concentrate
Gelatin mind
levitate into connection

Cups turned upside down
Entrapping ego in near vacuum
Aqua ducts bouncing off feline eyes
2 & a 4
Perfect air in a foreign atmosphere
Spinned on axis, ways to conduct
Your supply
Secede madness
Eternal order
Lungs sharply inhale with uncertainty
Hydroplaning your attempts at adultery
Decision was never your thing
Unmoving at every turn
Passion with objects
Reactions flicker between humility

It gives gifts
Your skin melts to the touch
Chocolate in magma
Molten sound deafens drench
Jealous mess, dividend
Hugging and dripping black with stability
Back, holy scripture written with integration
Sealed with treachery, acetate photography
Capturing clear innocence
Boredom and sinfulness
Spiked militant
Pencil drawn neuroses, veil
Bow down to schematics, we're radar
Sonar structure solar
It's all part of the process
Kristo Frost Mar 2013
Soon our grinning skeletons will come all unhinged and slide out of our feet as the casual chunks of so much worthless debris. Contagious laughter can be rather gruesome. Blocks upon blocks of television viewing containers echo entire cans of it into increasingly apathetic orbs. Growing loud without purpose, it deafens all who will listen. There is, to date, no cure for this cancer. We don't even really know what we're dealing with here. It is recommended that all civilians tie their shoes tightly, with double-knots if possible.
The Unfocused luminosity within my mind
is so bright that it often times blinds my eyes from the inside,
Desperate to concentrate and focus it into two beams
that shine on a fate that’s known but unseen,
at least outside of my dreams,
It backfires and converts into an inaudible scream that in turn internally deafens me.
Nevertheless in your company, it seems that you can feel this shriek’s muffled vibrations
and despite the two dulled senses you the give remaining four the most overwhelming awakening sensation.  
Your exquisite essence immediately arouses my olfactory causing my heart to beat rapidly, communicating with yours through its protective cage,
in a Morse code like language that predates drawings in caves,  
our bodies ripple in synchronous waves,
the taste of your lips and sweetness of your skin can sustain me for days.  
My third eye attempts to analyze your magnificence but it’s almost impossible to gauge,
I mumble “**** baby, thinking about how I want to get engaged and..
you whisper in my ear telling me I feel “amazing”
and I think to myself” **** right I do”,
forgetting that you’re describing how I feel to you,
Then It hits me, that now I can hear, as you whisper in my other ear so soft and clear
“baby look at me”
then I open my “real eyes”
and your beauty hits me like sunrise,  
The internal light that clouded my view,
from my eyes, reflects off of you and illuminates the room,
My mental muse,
You can clear my view when I focus on you
which is the cause and cure for my blues.

— The End —