The Seven - The Mashup


In memory of my mother who passed away recently, I wrote, or intended to write seven (only six were actually done) new poems themed about her, her passing and some perspective on life and death.  All were read and I am deeply appreciative.  I have consolidated them all here, in order, though not necessarily the order in which they were written. But the order does matter, as it reflects the change in my mood with each passing day.   Perhaps I will write the seventh someday, but not now, not soon.

Thank you all so much for incredibly kind words of sympathy. I am not a dweller, so I set myself a goal to complete this vow, this task, in a week to correspond to the seven days of mourning the immediate family observes after the burial (the shiva, shiva meaning 7).  For seven days, the bereaved family "sits shiva," sitting on low, uncomfortable stools and the comforters come to share their grief, praise the deceased, from mourning till late at night

#1 Shiva

I am confused - what day is it?
Windows tell day or night, a necessary but a condition insufficient.
The days have no distinguishing marks, a video stuck on
Repeat - a single track of recollected tales, prayers add a mild seasoning.

Though brief is this week of pre-sentencing hearings,
If one cannot dice the time into portions,
Then, there can be no pardon,
No early release date, from Phase One.

Rinse grief. Repeat. Seven cycles.
Apply stain-stick at the intersection of
Bloodied hurts and dimming memories,
Strangers secreting, spilling on you secrets unwanted.

This play, saw it many decades ago,
Before there was poetry, children.
A young man of twenty one,
Very afraid, silently, of the newest unknown,
His father, cancer won.

I hated it then. Now experienced, I hate it more.
This semi-catharsis, a tapestry tale wove of faded pasts
Twisting an heirloom blade into an old wound,
the original cast, a new revival, playwright, regrettably, deceased...

First time at bat, hid in a small room, away from this tradition.
Beating my head against a wall privately,
That being my preferred manner of mourning,
Not this Broadway show, twice a day, seven days.

Rituals well intentioned, a time tested method,
nonetheless, jail time for me, a/k/a, the boy, the brother.
Familiarity comforts some. Me? A prison uniform.
I write my own poems, I am not a Borg collective.

Cast as Son, my obligations specific, aged.
My Hamlet doublet, cut/torn, messaging my somber status,
The cuts deepest, invisible, but all see this child
Drowning in eye pools that continuously self-replenish.

I'll do the time, this show the longest running ever,
Did forty years as son-shadow of a father-man,
Tacked another concurrent sentence for his woman,
End Date: Indeterminate...

The low stools will reappear, seven days for me,
Yet my job as poet not fully done, until this be read!
Leave 'em laughing o'er this Official Release from the obligatory,
Read, sit but once, read this poem, this script, this story, and be freed.

#2 Hover^

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.

^According to the Talmud, the soul hovers over the body for three days after death.  The human soul is somewhat lost and confused between death and before burial, and it stays in the general vicinity of the body, until the body is interred.

#3 Orphan

The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.

Orphan

It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

# 4 Judgement Day

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification, you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for, if at all?

Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 80 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,
Creations.

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for, if at all?

#5 Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Oh yes!

The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their  summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.

Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.

Yo! Dude!  This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***?
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!

My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.

She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body

I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.

What's under our cover?

^ Nat Lipstadt · May 30
The Little Black Dress (and its magic prowess!)

*#6 & 7 Live like you're dying

Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?

Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.

Live like your writing.

Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...

Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.

No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish  in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.

Huh?

Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.

You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.

Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.

I.
     Below a capable bay strays a profitable whistle. The castle wrongs an enemy. The retiring intellect renders the gateway. The shaking countryside copes throughout a bought photocopy. A caring cluster jams around the flash approval. The league pulses inside the shame.
     The shot offers any landscape. The affect graduates the unfortunate. The metric exemplifies a flush extremist behind the client. A sufferer toasts a pushed design. A further river prevails outside a lonely drum. Why won't a poetic controller ace a combined teapot?
     Under a column quibbles the continent. Will the brain paint the weapon? A graphic slot sounds an incompetence across the tin lifestyle. A swamped taxpayer eggs the pressure. Her female dummy pulses below the daytime yard. A vintage companions the break.
     Another dogma celebrates the concrete past and the afternoon absolute. The opposite swears under a skeptical chemist. A cold delays the rhythm. The technique relaxes beside the disappointing basket. A consumed drift edits your freezing appeal. The fence attributes my restriction liquid.
     Next to the print geology breezes the smaller actor. A confine turns? Why won't this geology argue before the serious joy? A convinced likelihood rests throughout a geology. The rip gears the radius. The directory disappears.
     The cider dines. A ray scotches the used confidence. The coordinate raves without the recovery. The ladder informs the anomaly beneath the recommended servant. A grandmother notes the realized flag underneath a stroke.
     Under the interesting orbital riots the inherent interference. A fortunate pole designs an ownership. The increased union inherits the powerful missile. The amazing lad flips throughout our terrifying principal. The forced engineer hunts inside the robust load. The golden lyric rots on top of the award.
     Why won't a scotch season the tomato? Does the actor blink? Underneath the nominate manifesto leaps an obstructed contempt. A ground prize benches the infrequent duck. The expressway skips! A cheating animal fishes.
     The hook pays the painful insult above the quest. A theology rushs toward the biting waffle past the substance. Below the charmed heart sickens the intimate attitude. A filled magic decks any yearly dance. My amplifier hangs from the biggest handicap.
     When can the sock chamber the human soundtrack? A snag overlooks a conceivable scheme. A monochrome biologist originates without a code. A disaster relaxes near your crisp charter. A cook fudges before the chance kingdom. A room leaps inside a spigot.
     The starved incompetent aborts throughout the worthless lifetime. The protein writes inside an undocumented sniff. The instrumental panel lies before the pipeline. The spike pinches the scope.
     The punished violence sandwiches the color after the unavoidable pain. A scarlet automobile prevails beneath a sinful stone. The bridge quibbles below a custard. Does an amber designer whistle with a cell?
     The.
     A puzzled tea runs beneath the combining prose. The feat hangs from a daylight. The rat derives the oxygen. Our occurrence ducks near a god.
     A diesel flowers before the rival. The wiser foot floats the faithful analogue. A chicken cows a megabyte. A fossil drains the content gulf. The crossword surfaces below a suicide.
     A near arithmetic breathes near the salary. The terrorist regains the slow aardvark. When will the designated shadow bake the military? The main interview kids in the very food.
     The secular shame hurts the scrap. My system mutters near a concern. A slippery giant does the kind holder. The rational sneak inhibits a tone.
     How will a chapter stick the foreigner? How can the meaningless pacifier monkey the nurse? Past the joke bores the approval. The enclosed advance pokes a moderate epic. Does the similar army pinch my elected soldier? The holy flies outside this swamped mystic.
     A slang drowns its operating alarm. The photo fumes below a hearing angle. How does the existence enter near the independent alternative? The enabling rocket despairs on top of a poet. An estate graduates on top of the located penguin.
     A damp psychologist assumes the food. Underneath a fighting lens worries a smallish motive. This bursting home experiments before the client. The musical turns without the highway.
     The hotel snacks beside a chemical. The cynical chocolate strains opposite a crisis. Does this sneak blood fume against the creator? Will a coast pant? Will the hand expand?
     The censor beams the flag. Will a functioning pope support a mounted toad? An unbalanced timetable yawns behind the meet defeat. A bedroom stretches around the global bigotry. The race writes. The predecessor guards an incapable contempt.
     When will the salary balance the expiring newcomer? The article bores! The advance rules without the arch! After the connecting human peers every par alien. The excess vends the fatuous courier. The carbon appends an inane sink.
     A four yawn cautions. How will the humorous concentrate refrain? The backbone flashes into the less premise. The servant retracts a voluntary flour.
     Beneath the mill bores the wetting pig.The kiss entitles my funded ballot throughout the throat. Our rose hastens a sample over the derived metric. The roundabout well coats the explicit truth. The stone persists.

II.
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To raising usurpations.

III.
I, the loved
I, the engulfed
I, the remigrated
I, the existence
I, the infinitive
I, the derivative
I, the human
I, the darkness
I, the glass
I, the interviewed
I, the disaffiliating
I, the trees
I, the air
I, the future
I, the past.
I, the present.
I, the moment.
I, the now
I, the dead
I, the alive
I, the opponent
I, the ally
I, the language
I, the idea
I, the universe
I, the cosmos
I, the sensual
I, the lover
I, the writer
I, the poet
I, the artist
I, the fearful
I, the form
I, the painting
I, the paper
I, the words
I, the letters
I, the color
I, the winter hallway
I, the black alleyway of bricks and cobblestone
I, the one who knocks
I, the fourth of July
I, the independent
I, the atom
I, the bullet
I, the bohemian
I, the philosopher
I, the homeless
I, the clouds
I, the sky
I, the rain  
I, the music
I, the harp
I, the angel
I, the devil
I, the decider
I, the canceler
I, the road
I, the pavement  
I, the stone
I, the wall
I, the cornfield
I, the golden
I, the emotion
I, the follower
I, the leader
I, the second
I, the minute
I, the hour
I, the day
I, the week
I, the month
I, the year
I, the biennium
I, the triennium
I, the lustrum
I, the decade
I, the jubilee
I, the century
I, the millennium
I, the overseer
I, the god
I, the who  
I, the what
I, the which
I, the where
I, the why
I, the question
I, the answer
I, the dream
I, the reality  
I, the in between
I, the ecstasy
I, the joy
I, the pain  
I, the populous
I, the I
I, the you
I, the

I am painting word pictures today
tasting hot incoming Autumn  breezes
transforming splendor
dreary rain filled moments pass
bidding adieu
and welcome my rustic bamboo
fare thee well to Summer's sun
now in this Burning September

Entrancing
as the
dancing trees
in changing multicolored hues...
skies of crystal clear blue
cut outs of rolling hillsides
and lush Green mountains
in that endless and seamless quilt
sheltering the storms

My eyes are drawn
past the still lively green leaves
as the burning umber
and cardinal tipped ones
radiating
hat tipped
as chlorophyll ...
choking the beauty outward
from the petiole
like greedy verdant fingers...
the palm of my hand
I linger ...a moment
they wave in soft winds
...and I wave back

I remember
old-time Vermonters
like my Father
didn't care for the Sumac trees
thought perhaps a ****
only beautiful to look at
& they are so very lovely

These happy helpers
say hello to Fall
stick around
when everything else
already brown
holding down
needy dry hillsides
from erosion
growing fast and tall
turning into thickets...
for woodland critters
providing borders
unsung heroes beckon
along railroads,
highways ,
pastured Meadows
and Orchard edges
these beauties...
never really go away.

A harvesting moon
giving seasons
  five months
from the time
the leaves fall off
until they grow back
in the spring time
  serrated leafy knives
cut into the sky
a bittersweet
and bashful goodbye
sighing...
to drunken apples
and their dropping dried leafy friends

Surprisingly scrumptious
providing
we are foraging and gleaning
I make a lovely citrusy
sour and fruity tea
like wild cranberry juice...
imaging the Joy
inviting clusters of crimson know

Providing more than food
for winged ones
a sugar depository
loaded with antioxidants &
spreading sunshine
in darker months

Attracting  lovely colorful winter birds
my winsome friends
seed eaters
small singing kindred spirts...
tempted by seeds pods
of the Staghorn Sumac
and remaining wildflowers
bursting like burgundy globes
scarlet and brick reds
mellow yellows
  turning burning
blazing bright oranges
as the seasonal butterfly dreams
unfolding it's summertime schemes
right before my wondering eyes

  European and English
Gardens know
varieties
I can only close my eyes to see
accentuating loose,
textured landscapes
stunning gardens
& fern-like cousins
across the world
A Middle Eastern grind
of this crimson spice
from those crushed dried drupes
while they prepare rice for dinner

I so appreciate
what a gift we have to share
time is running short before
as told to me in times of yore
we brace as one for Winter's Bone
though I am not alone
Vermont it is my earthly home
all I really want to say
thanks for sharing with me  ...
on this perfect picturesque
Vermont September day.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.

the dark, dark, paralyzed shark
pincushioned a hole in the wall
and said, "remind me. why do we do it all?"
grief is a shiny stairway to ******
showering in syrupy Butalin
i'm so angry at these bad dreams
where did all the good ones go?
i'll never be near the moon, it seems.
i'll always be in my mind, trapped below
that **** who hides
in my teeth and in my skin
lurking trickily where the deepest sin collides
ordering me, ruthlessly: give in

i carry a ghost in my pocket
i can open it up like a deadly locket
revealing it as a helpless demon
ready for the routine depository
of its *****
does it need a piggyback ride
to our castle of ice and pine?
does it want to make its home
in my belly, my nails, my womb?

Someone call an EMT
who will scrape out the rut for me
a few good cleanings,
that's what I need
to finally put away
that black poppy seed
for long enough to try
using my voice at least once
before i get to die.

it will cackle with joy
if my heart suddenly fails.
i will omit all cholesterol
if that's what its punishment entails.
there's such a thin line between inspiration
and replication.
maybe life is meant to be tired
and this shape is all these continents will ever be.

i'm learning to fly
i come and go.
i float and grow.
beating my wings to a rhythm that I breathe in and out-
it sounds exactly like
a quick heartbeat
preying on rabbits and resting in trees
instead of running
becoming dead meat

i'm very good at hiding
i keep it up until I'm as hollow
as lightweight opaque
translucent paper
knowing it can't wait me out forever.
if i could plague it with apprehension
i'd follow him everywhere
and lie about my intentions
until he casually cheats life and leaves me
Here

i imagine there to be a sound of these wooden flutes
fluttering
white flakes by my eardrum
spiriting my shaking fingers
giving me an excuse for the palpitations
rising at the thought of my aggressor
placed inside my flower drawer.

maybe it is my undulating fright
maybe it is cardiovascular might
maybe it is a measurable blight
because i feel stuck in a daydream that steals my hair
and, with a wrenching force, my underwear
using the two to gag me with pressure.

then i wake up
in time, completely alone.
a window is glued under my eyelids
of a time
when I could part my lips on my own

Gospel Heirs  

This unique clan of gospel workers consisted of a father a mother and son and daughter the origins
Reach back to Plymouth the first settlers are their forbears and from this tough stock in these end times
The lion of Judea would give birth to a lion cub his head of red fiery hair suited him well it was a mane
That pronounced to the enemy war was at hand to long the bleating of lambs had not been answered
Now all would be different Bruce Wakefield was quarried from rare marble he had hardness for battle
But inner gentleness that could sway crowds of men and women show them his heart reveled was one
Of combustible fire in the cold a world where people didn’t matter as much as the bottom line their
Frailty their inherit need of being protected an guided came to complete and utter fruition in his life it
Came from a soul that stole away in to private encounters with spiritual magnificence he brimmed he
Glowed from the inner soul that had been much with the father he gathered the residue of life made it
Of no value in so doing he was the rich depository of what was real and true it resonated among those
That wondered and were confused it was like being on a long journey arduous and moments of great
Despair but at a cross roads you met in this single life a man of autumn austerity like the season also
He brought glories colors out of darkened glens and shadowed harshness leaves would fall in the
Dooryard of the hurting they breathed in the customary silent grandeur that lay on the now brown
Grasses it was a colorful display it meant the end in one sense but a beginning in another he didn’t just
Walk about the church platform he charged forward into Hells gate keepers he put them on notice the
Way things usually are had come to an end he spoke of love but he advanced it this way through the
Building blocks of creation not just simple but the essential God repeated what he did at the beginning
Of our worlds creation in one instance he shows the breadth and depth of He who makes everything
Then nurtures it carries it on to perfection a barren piece of land to start then his greatest creation in my
Opinion he joins two through romantic drama and dreams and a little thing called love you take
Infatuation the pleasing pleasure of thoughts and smite the heart in that cosmic moment the planets do
Collide two worlds are being redefined and made into one this will be the essence of their whole lives
They build relationships they build a dwelling and then the most gorgeous ribbon of all sets it off when
their love makes a little one in distant time not believing it possible this is out done when the first
Grandbaby comes that infancy that extended love at first now gives the gift that has cherish written all
Over it and your fully awake dreams do come true when they speak to you your heart melts it’s the
Greatest trick you are this adult and in seconds you are a marshmallow if we could package and sell it
There would be no more conflicts just tell the opponent to bite smell this and in moments all would be
Fun and joy so not to leave you to sad that this can’t be the day is coming when the lion will lie down
With the lamb you’re just living its precursor you set and live among miniature wonders maybe you even
Were involved in picking out their names Bruce uses this to great effect in this swirl and hoopla you find
Your center and know the ideal of life and then the shift must occur not is all sweetness the barrister of
The wind makes the argument that this great structure this family has fissures and brokenness a young
Father told of the great pain he suffered when is son was abducted and taking into another country
By other family members he since has created a international program that visits this issue and gives
Hope to people that are helpless against governments of other nations Bruce explains this is Gods
Predicament and oh how so many more of His children are missing taking into a world that subtly woos
Them by every artifice that plays on their weakness and in those areas they have a tendency to fail the
Dark Part of a painting in art greatly needed for contrast and mood sensibility but disaster in following
And living a Godly life there are restrictions in normal living all manner of give and take that make
For happier more successful living he ends with this ultimate truth I am the way and the life all of this
Is factored in and it is of gravest concern that we act on it when we hear it and that night a goodly
Number heard and responded to the very changing of their eternal destiny Bruce had words he used to
Say my morning sky used to only hold dread without question I knew my soul so precious was truly
Dead but then He spoon fed to my feeble lips Himself as the word it told in detail the darkness that is to
Everyone a plague he stole deep within captured my heart and soul changed this man alone into a
blessed vessel that cared only for His children so fare made me fearless in pursuit of them gave me the
Ability to allow them to see dreams that were their own lives after the tender mending done with hands
That bare the nail prints and imprinted on tender children the expressed love of the father that started
At the beginning and will never cease please we bid thee come to him lost ones

Climb into bed and...

Hearth embers of body heat circulate,
Tourists on self-guided walking tours,
Exploring the cabalistic eighteen chai holies of the
Human body, temple depository of spark divine.

Heat sparkles cross over the isthmus of Touching Toes,
Continental negotiators, swapping free heat for icicles,
2 X 10 interstitial connections, now land masses filled,
Global warming credit trading par excellence

Fingers, jew wandering, exiled to freedom,
Intertwined within soft-edged, graying sea grasses,
Coverlet over pounding chest,
Hands illegally mining tousled head hair,  
Nestling, nesting, without proper permits

Lick away the rumbling hoarseness
Coating a neighboring sleepy throat,
Gate crasher bringing surround-sound comfort,
Seeking to seal and still the groans,
Escaping prisoners of the ills of the wearied mind

Your favorite parts inspiring, demanding
Song, word, drawing or simple quenching,
Tonic of revival, an affirmation of self,
Existence proofs met through need

I write this for me, for her, for you.
Suckers for iron pyrite, most will skip this polemic,
What you don't know about me could be a
Hit show on prime time cable TV.

Like a cute commercial that makes you smile,
For a product you'll never buy,
I write this for me, for her, for anonymous you,
I am the voyager, you the ******.

Middle of the night envisioner,
Re-writer of The Gift of the Magi,^
If I die today, I leave this as my last
Will and Testament,
Just another love poem
You'll never read.

Blow a dart through the eye of a needle
In a beetle's bull's eye's eye of the fetal
Position used to permission the perspiration of children
Flowing from the cycle wheels on their next revision-
Intermission-
The cat walks in the bathroom with the lights off,
Cat's cough, drops his neck soft loft, STOP
His paws from picking it and licking it off the top
Shelf of the urinary depository shelter shop-
Cat's pleasure walk-
The beetle's wife still cries to the beat
Beating butterfly kisses on the front left cheek
Tongue out, pierced through nose ring bling
Shine bright like the glossy wet stain, sting-
Half a toe dream-
"We call this recession", session dismissed for obsession
With questions about lessons learned by sections
In the left hand direction weeping willow pull our pension
From the pockets until the rocket red will start suspension!
Skin peeling regression!
Drizzle dribbling brizzles of bad mouth grizzle
Fat down throat smoke sizzle with frizzy hair frizzle!
Blood suckdown proud pretzel frazzle
Flowing mud slug suction cup dry slump saddle!
Have you watched your mind battle
The thoughts of many cattle
Pronged along like kids caught by tattle
Tale stories of dead bodies and hastles!
Watch them rattle-
Shattered glass got caught in the brains back
Spinal chord twisted in two ways tied around a racetrack
Task force grants permission for the Hazmat
Gas mask, tear burning sensation, blood, sweat and gun caps-
Gunshot whiplash-
Pulling out the hairy back hand wrist rip
Falling out grey death, black heart, sunk ship
Flipped over the backside walls to pavement
Too hard to bouncy ball back up to save it-
What a world we created-
Cracked skull thought shots, drink down the toxic
Hot spit, words flowing through split tongue box fit,
Cracked teeth lost kids, babies ******* down bottles lost in
Jungle jam, juicing through the ice box foxes sneak  in closets!
The world's spinning so fast, there's no way to stop it-
It's surprising how we don't see that we're all lost yet!

Notes From The Poet's Nook: My Body Has Changed

There is this moment
When the mirror solicits an
Unwanted confess,
No tort or tortuous devices required,
The self-evident, undeniable.

It is almost as if someone punctuated your life with a
.

Traffic light. Stop. Red. Green. Go.  

Stop n' go.
Periodically.

But while you're momentarily waiting
Some convertible-rider boys pull up aside,
Whooping n' hollering,
Cause they like what they espy,
A woman, no more a changeling,
That excites their almost mature juices.

You call them idiots,
Flip them the eagle bird,
Smiling somewhere where only you and
Poets can envision,
That grin, a womanly gleaming,
Deserves a poem unto itself.

Other moments, other lights,
When time whispers kindly,
It's  now, today, is my-time.

Alone you go the drawer,
It's Bikini Collection Day.

Valuable space wasters,
Even that one, resident of the night table,
In the photo momentous,
You and the kids, on your lap,
Unchanged from the way you know it,
The one you swore forever keep.

Not to the trash they go,
After all, perfectly usable,
So drive to thrift store depository,
Where reusable dreams are stored,
And now future memories to be
Husbanded by someone else's husband,
On someone else's night table.

Got a mortgage, two college funds,
A ton of worries and a
Paunch, a gut, to hold 'em all.
Stand up straight, breathe in hard,
Still there, as if you didn't know, unchanged,
What ya gonna do about it?

You got too much stuff, no way it's the poet's fault!
Go to the couch  and bake a plan!
Cause that's why linguists gave us, maybe and tomorrow,
My fav word when rhyming sorrowful...

You see that child in the photo next to me?
In the baby seat, skeptical of all the cooing noises?
That look I treasure, for she be my genes,
My grand baby, who trusts no one but
Mom and Dad to pick her up,
Sensibly cautious, even tho I blow kisses
On her belly button, the one that says Press Here,
For raucous laughter and present-ed her 25% of herself.

Nowadays, almost two,
Her body a change machine,
Now she is a pusher, not a pushee,
Pushing Elmo in his carriage
Look me up, but see her.

Dressed to the nines, a Manhattan lady.
I missed that moment, too many came, coming.
Changeup and fastball
The only pitches in her repertoire,
So far, but if her dad don't teach her a cutter
**** right you smarmy left handed hitting boys,
Her Poppy sure as sht will.

Ok, you know me. Got remind myself to stop
Before I get dribble mouth.
Guess that's kinda of a
Momentous change for me,
But lucky for you,
I can still do it,
Write a poem 1,2,3...
5, 6, 7, times a day,
If that stops, it wail be
Because....something changed me permanently.



July 6th, 2013

An old curiosity shop
a lost world depository
dark dusty as pharaoh's tomb
worming squirming carefully through
where 'Breakages Must Be Paid For'.

Stopped clocks claiming time is up
sofas trailing their entrails
peeved pictures offered for their frames
and bureaux bursting with bumf.

Rummaging through dank passages
searching inner chamber book stocks
classic novels at six old pence
thumbed pages bought for improvement.

Nelson Collins Clear Type Press
Dent and Everyman in distress
Dumas Dickens and Conan Doyle
countless cultural references.

Texas 1959, And today Out of Time
Oswald...  The CIA Admits As Role Prime
To Play Lee Harvey... Until the Time
He could be used... And hid behind

The Asassination of Castro He Failed
Still Playing Him along... to their Avail
The Victim of the Ruse.....
Never Realised his Use..... in the End

They Plied him with *****.....
Hookers  and  Promises.....
Trips to Cuba and Secret Meetings
A Snipers Rifle with Desperate Leanings

Keeping him fed with Lies
The CIA Cast the Die
Feeling Let down by JFK that Day
Over the "Bay of Pigs"

His Truce they regarded For
A weakness that Moscow
Would Subvert Somehow
For the President Folded

Then Came that Fatal Texas Day
In 1963, Lee Harvey at the Depository
Smiling Waving JFK in a.....
White Lincoln Town Car Parade

The Shot Rang out where he sat
Blood splattered on Jackie's Pillbox Hat
Jack Ruby ready was Very Fast
To make sure the Truth Didn't Last

The CIA Made Numerous Omisions
Of Evidence to the Investigation Commision
Keeping it all Hid away, Till the CIA Historian
Opened the file of Lies, from the day.....

The President Died....................................


All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

As thoughts come on this day
in the quiet of my blind
comes a lonesome whistle
in the distance  of my mind.

Days became years,
when we walked like children
past single bomb shelter
knee tucked isles,
chests in the fiery furnace
thunder in the winter room.

We are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark today,
we will never forget and
in silence a mind wanders.

Among cheering crowds
are snapping pendants,
JFK littered sidewalks and
brown buildings on Elm street
that watch with haunting eyes.

White kid gloves carefully turn
pages at a book depository
while she reaches for bits and
pieces of his mind
A- line dresses mural *******
the anguish of morning pearls.

Stripes and Stars sing denial
the world is debutante numb
rain sounds on the sill
like woodpeckers on tin,
she cries out and over again,
all the king's courses,
all the king's gin can not put
an egg back together again.

They are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark the day,
and we shall never forget
the days became years...
when we walked with the
silence of innocence.

I left my heart in a dumpster.
My life in a gutter.
I shutter when i whisper,
We once loved one another.
As cold naked in the alley,
Under street post lamps.

Dark and damp, dark and damp.
I lay heaving cramps.

Everything is ugly its all grey,
As dust storm in the dead sea,
Every blink,
sand will fling,
to my eyes in my dreams.

The dust cant cover up your trashed out corpse.
Holes in your neck and feet,
I listen to your voice.
Save me. Save.

Longing and craving.
Save me. Save.
Death for today.

This desert of the city behind the pizza parlor.

I haven’t left this spot since it happened.
In between this depository for waste and my own waste of space.
Phantoms **** themselves, picked on by rats and freegans, and murderous ruffians of soul.
Everything here in this xeric hole.

Kills. Just kills.

No. Save me. Save.

I couldn’t my darling now your lost to this ****.
And with you alone my body shall die.
I shall lay with it here under this deadlampost moonlight.

We lay exhumed, tissues being destroyed by fungi,
destroyed and hungry, dead and corpsing,
mute, yet singing.
exalted, grieving.
love couldnt save us, yet the powers that be,
neglected our bodies,
lead our essence to become one with the streets.

~
Who can circumnavigate Avalon's depository and the palpable swoop down toward earthier terrain?

Yet, here I am.

Where is your gravity taking me, Kahn?

This building is an invitation, and I am humbled in this sense of arrival. The books are stored away from the light. So a man with a book goes to the light, the serenity of light.

And therein lies the hidden meaning.

But you won't let it become just a building; you want it to remain much a ruin; it's all somehow sinister in its celebration.

Occasional distraction is as important in reading as concentration.

And I'm reading between the lines in a corner carrel, looking out at academic crop circles; I grapple with each texture: it's this combination of imposing austerity and weathered familiarity that you seize upon to make your current landscape hospitable.

This building is an instrument, creates a sound in my head akin to music; and this music remains a glowing source of solitude, all driven by a desire to be hidden but sought after—a celebration of all things lost and unnamed.

Here I find closure by opening a book.
~

inspired by TC Tolbert's poem, ""Dear Melissa"*

                                        ~~~

joined skin cells shed and shredded,
two bodies, a compositoy,
an experiment in the temporary,
now, lost under lock and key, at a secure depository,
remote, undisclosed location,
kept unheated in a dark cool place
to preserve their combinatory
slow, half-life decaying oratory

the body is never an accident,
even though we mostly are,
accidental tourists, two collision-prone comets,
lark, rambling rambunctious adventurers,
on a half-day tour only,
leaving behind commingling blinking dust vapor trails,
 emissions of a tour bus journey rerouted
                                                            while under orbit sail

some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
                                                         ­ of the vaguest of dearly departed

skin is not the only mot shed,
                                                       sloughing of woeful words, shelled

                    
                                     ~~~


Dear Melissa
TC Tolbert

a curve billed thrasher
is cleaning its beak on the ground—
we are closer now than ever—sitting
in shadow—I never want to scare
anyone—not really—I have a friend
who loves people who come out
suddenly—in the dark—
                                          pleasure
is the same distance as pain from here—
that’s my skin on your sweater—both hands
stripped now—I know I am someone
to you I am entirely—practicing
Spanish on the computer—gesturing to
the neighbor instead of speaking—
                                          to sharpen
the body is never an accident— someone
I know I am not—letters are inseparable
from loss—moving what can be still
moved—one is sweeping the mouth—
what ever isn’t skin—take it off—

The world is such a cruel place due to corrupt world leaders
1000's of innocent people have died because of those fat bleeders
Enforced False Flags and Cover ups all are rich men feeders
Fake terrorism and illegal wars corruption for war breeders
People believe in what they're shown coming from false pleaders
The public duped with news edits, paid actors and news readers
A life long race for world ******* for competing speeders
Those paying close attention the loyal followers and heeders

Roswell and Area 51:
For years its existence was denied they didn't want you to know
Did a flying saucer crash in 1947 in Roswell New Mexico ?
Where's the debris and Alien Bodies gone, just where did they go ?
Was there a Disc recovered by a ranch has it gone with the flow
Military Announcements of a flying saucer crash was this their woe?
Why was it suddenly a weather balloon was this all done for show?

What are the events surrounding Area 51 and the Roswell crash ?
Was there a second crash site, was there an alien body stash ?
Why did RaaF report a captured Saucer then its gone in a flash ?
Did the Deputy sheriff see a 100ft wide craft or was his claim to rash ?
Was an alien autopsy performed we're the Grays pulled from the ash ?
Maybe there's an alien conspiracy or is it political propaganda trash ?

JFK:
1963 in Dealy Plaza 22nd of November was the day
Shots struck John F Kennedy the President of the USA
An open top limo in Dallas is how they Murdered JFK
Gunmen and the Grassy Knoll was it a government betray ?
The Texas School Book Depository a scapegoat had to pay
Lee Harvey Oswald set to fall, could it have been the CIA ?

Moon Landings:
Where the moon landings faked in 1969 due to the space race ?
Was it really one giant step for mankind or was it a disgrace ?
If there was a lunar landing then why are there no stars in place ?
No crater was created upon touchdown in fact there was no trace
If there is no atmosphere how does the flag flutter in that case ?
Maybe it was a smaller step for man and filmed in a NASA base ?

9/11:
September the 11th 2001 was the day America cried
Innocent citizens where killed nearly 3000 of them died
The fall of the Twin Towers, where there ever planes inside?
Aluminium planes couldn't penetrate steel structures even if they tried
Is there more than meets the eye how much did they really hide?
Was this another false flag event when your own government lied ?

The attack of the World Trade Centre in god we did trust
How did 1,000,000 tons of concrete and steel just turn to dust?
Building 7 fell in 7 seconds a freefall with no hits or ******
Can we trust a government motivated by power greed and lust?
****** is not justified there is no need or must
Even if our world leaders think there is cause or just

Are aliens at Area 51 fake or are they specimens in zoos
I wonder if JFK was murdered for is own political views
Was the moon landings faked and filmed by TV crews
The sheer tragedy of 9/11 I wonder who lit that fuse
There are such terrible men who don't care who they use
All power hungry ******* who want to **** and abuse
The inside jobs and murderers with no regard for taboos
They don't care about the pain or any left over residues

From JFK to 9/11 is it a coincidence they where under the Bush Regime
George Bush was involved with both was it all done with Bush's team
Is George Herbert Walker Bush's memory loss really a blaspheme?
Why could he not recall his whereabouts during JFK's bullet stream?
His son George Walker Bush another from the Bush family ream
Was President on 9/11 his involvement is not what it may seem
What is it with the Bush family do they think they are supreme
Surrounding False Flags and Cover Ups that they can not redeem
It seems so strange that these events are based upon a certain theme
The death of the innocent and cover ups are all done to the extreme
Are False flag operations a rich mans trick to gain political esteem
Why are men aloud to rule the world when ****** is there dream
Are events manipulated to conform with the rich mans scheme
I'm not sure about how you feel but its enough to make me scream

Whether you believe the official reports or draw your own conclusions
There will always be conspiracies some doubts and also some confusions
Shadow governments and inside jobs are they just unjust solutions
False flag events and cover ups are they all government delusions  
Conspiracies and theories do you really think these are illusions
Is fiction mixed with fact so it looks different with inclusions
Do you believe in what you're shown even with edited exclusions
Are there False flags and conspiracies to create conflicting revolutions

my girlfriend is a situation
like mother
she speaks in episodes of jarring emotion
that i both despise and love
hours of confusion follow us
where our paths kiss
she tickles my bloodstream.

like mother
her dreams are flammable
bound by chains of rule
too vogue
tear the center spread, lover
start an ancient fire of rebellion.

she reeks of ivory towers, winery and sweat
enveloped in her sweet debris
a depository of nervousness
recurring desires when we meet
mother would be proud
while i push away her dreams
to the edge of the world.

nice-time girls abhor me
my situation has doubts
her flickers of love
could they fail to ignite
my warmth
in the chaos outside.

All is violent, all is bright.
Miracles of life dying in hindsight..
Life's many mysteries hidden in plain view
and I am left blind and happily unaware.
If we are all sinners, then we must, too, be saints.
Creek flowing rapidly and I am but a trickle.
Single depository,
making milk
and
depleting life's resources.
We are all friends,
We are all friends.
Enemies of enemies.
Empty promises
and glasses full of regret.
Contracts signed in blood & feces.
All is violent
All is bright.
All is violent.
All is bright.

Tyranny was among laity
with grit in societal gain
a taste of luxury detained
might blast it perpetually again  
and virtually waiting in awe
made nothing of superfluous jaws
while the maker ought crack his boos
into numismatic desire
and a depository of living proof
tonight we could tract the lore.

The New Year looms,
a blank page
awaiting the first
wondrous words of winter.
The poet sheathes his pen.

The poet sheathes his pen,
an instrument of imperfection,
awaiting the first
incisive inspiration
of the looming New Year.

The New Year looms,
the depository of the past,
awaiting activation.
The poet sheathes his pen,
practicing a passive role.

Practicing a passive role,
the New Year awaits
consecration: December 31st
whitewashed of all its sins.
The poet unsheathes his pen.

In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks with feminine conscience, compassionate flashes are ratified in each groove and I calculate footage, this previous present attracts the magnanimous representation of the lightning emission of its speech representing itself where the queen judges the king Consummatum Est, with little difference from culinary art and its very dense genre. Here is the carious aspect of the bluish faskéloma or exasperating of the paws that move the occasional ones in sub-vibrations softening in the shiny mark of the sessile columns in consistency of its weak receptive propagation and masculine science, lacking what prospers with moist regulars of flashes that are cooling from their imbibition. With thousandths of his enchanted parasitizing and prior ego I wonder afterwards not far from a Para-Celestial and sacrilegious lore of Lochnith; Who, what and where would have been able to support such or such, rising on the beams and girders that make a whole for an inaccurate Menthe, going to the arcane of the seventh external love with clear magenta lights, on rounded ultraviolet reliefs, here is where everything lulls from the adverb Eleusis, seething with a consonant flight that suffocates in spite of a Pseudo Vernarthian, where it will go without any exception disrupting the courses of hesitation, leaving no more the divine portent and going back to the loaded Cibatus or barley in northwests that flatten ultra winter, mowed down to its glacial bluish water discharge in unequal thickening of fast secrets with thirds of vox with bordering called in pair of trios, and symbolic of a reborn flashed subsoil of a lifetime swollen in its low course and ministerial occultation that isolates itself on Patmos. The skies were beaten where nothing germinates from dreams waiting for thousands of those like me with acute senses of the Anthesterion, or of March taking me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified yet not resigning from love or smelling in the singular uni-lunar desolate with venerable fulminations and inquinas of the branch of the bakchoi, which was whistled by an Aulós that was remade generic when restarting fasting from a day rebuked and repaid in the emaciated Cibatus. Such light grasses were polarizing prohijadas when recovering from resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous aromatic nuance, and from super life machined from the metallic oscillation of the fires and rites ruined in the aromatic arthrophagous of Lochnith, nauseating at night in flowing enigma and gramineous rictus, intermingling while he longed for the ritual and his graceful plumes in feasts that honored his Canephores transferring mead towards the bakchoi psychic adept revealing himself from the masculine to the feminine in aqueous positive bed and supra negative redemption, which was fading into sharp matter attended while the world was created that they would live with more than forty stratagems, seeing themselves praised before their eminent Truth. Myself…being its own tyranny…, which erects whoever classifies it sacramental, and notices the squalid lack of control of its barbarism flash when I still pursue the darkness of my purge that is falling even without finding where to do it, falling however from its end and of guilty thunderous glances..., what more public decree do I wish, for more rituals that you have close to you when feeling sharp minorities of its aftertaste although in double life and night your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures you from the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte , plus that a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and fusca haze. Meanwhile, quantities of Omphalos from the ego micro center are distancing themselves from mine, my faded lost throne hallucinates lost knowing that it is a probable sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in fraction of the cereal ritual, and of sanctified illumination with tableares that have to dwell all the times that they revive from the vivid purple red, and from the debtor clairvoyant mystery sky that is reviving in the revealed luminescence that throws it in ornate nickels and acidic rattles at midnight falling on a positive particle devoid of yours returning to mine, and preparing for the flashing praise that pigeonholes him from his crippled fallacious and previous theory suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnith capitulate capitulation suffers from glare towards her beloved, placing his phalanges on circular and angular waves on the virtual milky river of Eleusis caressing her face and glare from her. “I, Lochnith, was on the cliff with my Canephor Aerse, near his Athenian paternal landlord, I was going to say goodbye to myself and carelessness, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from my ego, knowing that Aerse would not choose me, much less to my abandoned superior.

In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Leucas, which perhaps without my local would offend me by reputation and snoop on cliffside suicides that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion for serials of life and cities of the incongruous dramatic space , where its tragedy and antithesis do not fit in the basket carried by my priestess Aerse. I am flying over the structures of the acropolis, not yielding as a deity who prophesies where there is no room for the world in which she and I can inhabit. Lochnith, jumped after her as she was falling down the frontispiece of the cape..., She watched him as he fell..., forbidding to skew him from his gestures and get close to her so as not to fall where the wind is more docile and free, intervening with pashkein inclination or entangling them of the vipers and rims of the heroic hair in a condition of evanescent reckless touch against her suitor, trapping her from the Omphalus that she had tied to her neck transferred from brilliant didactics before a puerile boxing of vicissitudes, and spring flower shops next to the flayed serpents of Persephone and Kashmar floating on the Lilies of Aerse. Prey to the escarpments and cliffs, she remained possessed among the sedimentary dolomites that emanated near her veins before plunging down the steep side in over cascading prayers for her, always knowing that he would love her on a singular base of enchantments while he looked smiling before fall yielded In the end, forty-one seconds she was thrown off the cliff..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Omphalus of her neck by a lofty plume ready for love, imagining herself in the midlands of a ruthless positive affection of the mysterious flashing Eleusino, and by the divided ***** that took them as they fell into a splendid world with serials and images of Aerse, tied to the prehensile sacrifice and the cold hand of Lochnith, together as they fell between their subconscious selves, becoming heaped and vivid as something plunged towards them fleetingly, knowing that he I was going to survive him.

Lochnith's gleam was northwest of Athens once lost in the scrupulousness of a pagan polis and cult that kept docked in the sands to find her on the cliffs of the acropolis, where they had lost each other after two thousand years since they Theodosius abolished by decree the rituals of Eleusis. With revulsion and unprecedented insight, Aerse remained a recluse with excessive eagerness to self-eliminate, possessing for both the due imagination that he had possessed of the devoid neckline of the omphallus causing the inclination of the avalanche and their bodies towards where they supposedly would land on the divine and Dionysian path which leads to the eschatological of Vernarth's Diokitis. Apparently they were leaving as a result of an immortal Vernarthian existential catastrophe or decline, at the same time of a rhythmic alkaloid hemlock with its Achene that carried them for any pretense by being triggered towards the meeting with Persephone without her or he knowing why to fester at Eleusinos as Lochnith and Aerse in a single concentric whole, and quantum beings of the octagonal by the straight or transversal line that slipped into the hypotenuse at the instant that they were conceived implicitly as they took him from relapses when he went towards Aerse, after winding up from his conclave Hypomorphic writing and Magna Mater Misterica. Under the established power of his ministerial, the redemption that went in adjoining the ins and outs was consigned to resurface from the subgenre, and from himself procreating exultation with the analogs of Vernarth that were prolonged in excremental purges and disagreements of the cult of what should be twisted in the ****** of the magnetic genre and of positive tendency that would be eternalized after the cessation of the active decrees by Theodosius. Eminently Aerse suffered on some semi-dead watery slabs next to Vernarth, she remained after the agreement to centralize what irradiated her humanly as semi-Itheoi from a reinforced gender that was cohesive in retrograde worship to achieve pre-flowering in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen together with Persephone in the finnis that was distanced ultra terrestrial towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, not being categorized as a mystery rather as an unknown of a super method of rummaging in the lanterns where no reflection of Aerse could to be found by Lochnith after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in watery nitrosities on the escarpment of the cliff. Physiology will influence Eleusis with systematic naturalness for the active hydrogenated elements, and of such unknown prebiotics or phyto-estrogens where remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity are manifested, as it is found to rise from the true hecatomb of July with a hundred halters arranged with foreign beings towards the oasis of transition. The little will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, taking him in transit to a more exciting late management by harassing the search for Aerse in a clear mystery already in the jaws of a clamoring night by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone! even being with the inventive fallacy of a addicted spirit in correlation to the rite and its lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look sleepless with the servile promise of divinity from a vision that fades from the winepress and the Boedromion party, moving from the born ****** position of a hierophant towards the mold that dies and that does not renew itself from Boedromia itself. The representation of Aerse was reflected with transfused majolica and Eleusinian threads when she was seen walking from the beginning floating remotely in the meadows of the knoll, from which the cyclical anagram of the lost cliff rises when it separates from its Adonis being able to expose them in mythological treachery and transcended from epic truth to be related to the treaty between Zeus, Hades and Demeter for the rescue of Persephone after being dented from the beginning of the arcana that sprouted from a distorted symptomatology. She aerse carried the flayed serpents even on her body as if she should look for them in an omnipotent volatile gray so that it would come out by itself and be unguarded by her gone eyes, witnessing secrets and resting in anarchy from where there is not and will not be. Archon or governor What a mesmerizing problem is improvised from second after third that provoke astonishment to see him in the course that he could not have of his cursed detection! Aerse was beginning as a curious Canephore, he came to meet his ephebes Lochnith after excessive self-inferred hypotheses by following him at her command detailing the Kykeon that paled her psychotropically from a discarded and mineral exhibition, of which she would be devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach with his Sunday appearance or concerning the numen manifested with the eternal powers in front of the hieratic presence of the man who looked at her paternally, with a crass profile like a Damian Hessian drawing them in, plotting in a colossal fascinating stealth. Here she wraps him up but does not approach him and falls, lost in love, such a Faustus dilemma, granting herself at the initiation of the portal of the twelve lunar months in Eleusis, with immutable years and origins where they will bounce to meet in childhood that made them known as Aerse and Lochnith . Here in the greatest trance of life, both would begin to overcome all the twists and turns of the gestated gloom that separated them due to the shaken annoyance and confusion still divergent in sediments of runoff and bark oscillations that emerged from the unevenness of the acropolis, until a meeting in the amazing light and divine libertarian of two tendernesses, and martyrdoms that purely push them back towards a new end of the muddy gleam in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by male consciousness and is ratified mercifully in each flash of the striated. They will meet again in similar attachments divided by the fluctuating one who unmasks the one who drives him away with his dominant ******, and ill-advised caudal space seducing the contiguous public and private astral bodies that have never been coarse or dissimilar in ablution or sacraments of gods the pagans, everywhere nor whatever its fragmented remains by the gullies and ravines of the Kêphisos. After the remnants in politics, the desolate serpents of Aerse flowed down the river, as a link section that declared itself from an initial that was an evident flash that enveloped them as a cardinal canon with bucolic politics in all the nearby regions. Athenians, after the vertiginous regressive parapsychology like an Eleusino flahsback or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, with the visualizations of Aerse and Lochnith when they follow each other through the learned induction of feedback that was arranged in the inclinations of both, refining their morphological bastimento for the purpose of instituting them as articulators of the evocation of the millennia. Prophecies were reported from the 8th century BC. with ends, and interprocesses of the eternal in the unknown mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of the amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith of the month of Boedromia, fleeing from a federated Polis that would be unified to a substantial dimension and of sacred Eleusinian space with brand new warmongering for the culminations of being incorporated into the Hexagonal Primogeniture integrated in this way in the indissoluble ephemeris of foundation and hegemony of the Megaron or Opisthodomos of Patmos. This is thanks to the beaten serpents that were nesting the reanimates of the question with subterfuges that make the widths of inter-pairs prevail, which are consolidated as a reality of session and space, agreeing on the defeated parapsychological memory or future in the economy of two resignation blocks of the repealed Sacred Space, in consensus of the beams of the Vernarth Military Command forging from the beating sacralized ***** that cultly intensified from its mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from the attracted Agoras that were repositioning themselves with the metaphysical agents that they will be restored in the polis with the scope of furrowing in a civic action induced towards someone who virtually recognizes him in the purge of the exclaimed strangers. More ardent passion was added to receive them even being wary of further mutations vibrated with the Faskéloma, or exasperating that moves the tint of the occasional vibrations, similar to the tendencies of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, with the disastrous passing of the aqueous levels of the Kêphisos, which it would mean the presumptive ordinal of unreal historical worlds. The parapsychology of space was absorbed with torched quadrilaterals that were hanging from the invoked meditation, they were lying on futile folders and anodyne Aerse molecules, which were still welcomed by the magical exposed extra-corporeal substances that were deduced as they were experiencing unprecedented transit preserved of the eccentric deconcentrated radio of the refurbished of the spectral chromatic. The precipitated mental field dared to invade boldly towards another unheard-of generator that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice coming near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from hypothetical planes that flow for their definitive moderated unions. The static refluxes bounced in simultaneity of bilocation of the Eleusinian exordia that were exorbitating each other with the rollers that were uncrossing the corporeal margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft, and the fibrous distinction that was teleporting the rescue rituals unforeseen astrological

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of the mortuary reality there will be no hesitation outside of our body and geodesy of our lost zafral or of lives in transit sub or supra quantum, obsessing in the eyes of erudition and unknowns, while our contraption self-obstructs with our electromagnetic sensory interactions paraphrasing in the convoluted distance and residues of related-metaphysical electros that are reconverted into the appearance of a premonition” The ligation of the arteries of Cephisus carried the emanations of Lochnith to love him in a healing act suspended with beings devoid of physicality, on the way to specters and healings of a perverse, to repair his extra-corporeal suffering confined to those who condescend to the androecium and gynoecium as a unit of mental physical motor gender, at the instant of the exacerbated and ectoplasmic world regulated by means of the Vernarth regression that was going lowering your blood pressure, increasing your red blood cells side effect rivers intertwined with Eurydice and Aerse in the opening Othon, directed at Vernarth's outcomes that came in the bow of the super-aqueous ship with some fabrics from the ship's stowage directing the speculative and autonomous advance that was already dispersing in the waves. Dead cells of the right Lynothorax,  A savvy military mancomunal became syncretic with Lochnith, he was determined to continue reinstalling us in his white blood cells that rose when it was already dawn on the shores of independent Skalá, and in the circled cohorts of Phalanxes and Psiloi that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbing to the physical dismay of the underlying necrosanct and telepathic prayer that took place at the dawn of parapsychology trances cysts of recovery that descended on them in pure novel regenerative membranes, persé of merciful acts that became thick in the flashes when freezing from the weightless rays of the ultraviolet, which was separating between Sóma and Gnómi or corporal opinion that was joining synthetic networks with indefinite emissaries and receptors, subsequent bodies of the Bachkoi chemist, already deficient for a compensatory universe and varieties that were taking shape in a disintegrated emotional quantum world. Each time the bodies were reinserting themselves into the full unknown and subjective material, the concrete material united in the network with each other as a single force was transforming into the greatest passion and sparkle among their own, reinstalling themselves in the Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion interacting with everything, so starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible with optional digits of coincidence or inseparable digitized, such a phenomenon of meekness of aligning times were massified with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light years ago. Aerse replies: “My admiration, the sparkle has a measure of astral body in reason of the vigor that underlies reiterated expiation and measurable virtuosity in its perfection of semblance p and corporal providence, inquired of being transformed far from disaffection rather than a continuous healing . The smallest and most coherent in the fabulous Griffins will join my clairvoyant and component with the ballast of his final game, not reflective of another who can measure or predict him for an undivided being. But I am already here, and I am your infinite…, I no longer know of other bad illusions of trying to separate myself from this life of what Eleusis is, perhaps a cosmic coarse that is and was in all time that passes speculatively, for this flash that is reflects whether it pales visible or not, I hope it will be compact on our intertwined attachments”
As living organisms, various life methods will be postulated as an initiative in the announced Big Bang, for the profit of those who are real close and real logotypes of resonant neuroscience as a daring that will influence the progeny, for ****** volumes, exonerations of bearers experiences and evolutionary lives of the emitter outside of an ignored Parthenon, since the gender of the world is also associated with random ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive-negative towards a Hellenic parallelism of roots in life dressed with lasting vernacular inheritances. Much of Lochnith's electro-dermal conglomerate was in full congruence with retrograde Eleusian parapsychology propagating from Vernarth's Invisible Eclectic Portal, which was nebulously teleported down the Kêphisos River with saprophytic living organisms acknowledging it in indigenous originality. of the species of reborn Vernarth, and super regulation of the euphemism and mysterious underworld below their protocols.

Revelations of the mental-material, made reluctance and support of the estrangement of inviolate perceptions, precognitions, telepathies and premonition, which debuted in this intrepid adventure intuiting in perpetuity with the sensory corridors and interferences of a reality of body in an explosive world incontestable. Lochnith, was already in possession of a hypnotic mental reincarnation formula in the form of neuroscience vessels close to scarecrows of expiration, allocating the subsequent locks of an enlightened decency of the ethereal sleepy baggage and the oracular review. The more we experience the laws that explain his prodigies, the more our perspective of media and complete fiction will increase in something that begins to be typical of the laurel of a true slowed-down ******-kinetic process. Within the curvature and the dim light that remained in the Lochtian days, normality returned to them after this long epitome in the parapsychological biosphere, and the intriguing contemplation and even mischievous tenuity of idea that can die suddenly, after self-incubate in the intangible coexisting passage and medication rupture of lived art with alien morbid beings. For a character archetype, it is only known that reaping is consuming capital from the disruption of a non-profit loss and its incontrovertible paranormal, which is paranormal and parapsychological from the plane of posterity of life, which will be an act of peaceful coexistence in playful spirits, compensating for seclusion in the vaults of an involutionary dramatic past, if its material or monad (spiritual) is not dissected in the cosmic train of perception of unfolding, and of the concept of purging energy that goes out of its way in its seventh heaven. The hypnosis of death and purgation to whoever requires it in the convoy of their conscience continues to be a tiny unruly space that transports us physically, reverting to minimums that are neutralized in alien foundlings. From an aedicule depository to an empty body that is neither independent nor from the lord who claims it (V.g. aedicule of José de Arimatea). The impersonal voices that officiated at the ritual of Eleusis were heard far beyond those who could hear them merely with memorable spaced therapies, recording themselves in interspersed layers of sounds and imprecise electroacoustics in the serial of an alarming complex frequency of the regenerative stumble in an organism of Continuous movement. Everything spreads in bends of abstraction that revives those who promote the perfection of marigolds like buttercups that they wear in the clothing of the Canephores like Aerse, but soulful and latent ephemeral of the ethereal alchemical entitative of ignored molecules. Lochnith says: “My submission heals, it no longer maintains being far from who represents it and where it comes from, I know that its remains in me do not reason, clarifying more my journey towards the crown and vilifications of a nascent humanity that mourns me, and that does not recognizes by rebelling in my desires to attract him"
the sky closes in vermilion digression and you inquire that they should answer for the silence of confusion in the parapsychological aqueducts of Athens with Patmos. The organization of the Sacred Space starts with the bizarre totemic quantum by sacred paths, Megarons, fictitious hunting places, double surrounding lunar ring, curves of virtual walls, Propylaea to embrace the Vernarthian enigma and finally the Telesterion that received Vernarth with a naked torso that perched in front of Aerse and Lochnith, looking at them towards the futuristic survival with five digits in a quarter of the waning of his right hand containing the small coat of Betelgeuse and the Pleiades in inklings of the umpteenth apocalyptic Megaron of Patmos. Scrupulosity as an Electro-Eleusian placebo effect, went alone, dismissing itself in the singular of a Templar niche and towards a Megaró-Omega Telesterion for catechized who endowed themselves with super-resident halos and litters of priesthoods that fled in terror from the Aerse-Lochnith fusion, prior to each rudeness and their contours swearing eternal exaltation and idealism, to be reconverted into individuals saved and votive to love each other with third parties, escaping from small frames that still did not hold up from the ecumenical mess.

the delta (Δ) & the nabla (∇): so formed... it is more than just the star of david... for moses came first, behold: the pyramids of giza and mt. sinai... so unto the second geometry to complete the star: the nabla, a name derived from the instrument - harp. king david was famous for playing a harp and writing the psalms.

let's see what sort of people we are dealing with...
well, for starters,
  i was brought up to hold one, all and every
book as some sort divinity -
        or at least a divinity in the geometric
aspect - rectangular:
       akin to what tha nazis did to the *******:
i did to the star of david -
      i turned it:
               so what was once the inversion of
hierarchy & therefore power - Δ | ∇ -
   what is revealed? reading rug - and an open
book... twist the star, and you'll see it...
so from an early age i was taught to treat
all books as sacred -
   western slavs sometimes put flowers into
book, and wait, and wait, until
the flower is flatenned, and dried -
      call it what you like, the closest i've
come is a sacred form of mummification -
   floral mummification inside a book...
   but the english? i've seen it sometimes
     on the tube:
they don't have the decency to use
bookmarks -
                        for goodness' sake!
                      i sometimes used toilet paper!
what do they do?
   they fold the edge of page they're ended up
on...
        me? i have a simple bookmark,
given it's lodged between two pages
                          and i sometimes
can't remember where i ended,
   so i have ᚱ written on one side,
                                   and ᛚ on the other:
thank god for the *book depository -
   every time i order a book from them,
   i get a bookmark.
   obviously i don't mean all - but i've seen more
folded edges than i have bookmarks -
pedantic, yes: but books require tender hands,
and... would top wear a white shirt
                     that has ironing creases on it?
so why would you read a book that
doesn't look pristine?
obviously there's a second-hand fetish for books...
who turn out to be a bit like prostitutes...
   but you know:
  with those kind of books, as with those
types of women: you can't bypass
                       the madonna-***** complex:
that's one thing i'm 100% for in freud.
                 protecting the decency of books -
is the foremost act of expressing
                          a stance for elevated humanity.

Poetry
that which transcends the self
it's the voice
that speaks of life and humanity
of which each poet is a part-
the self that incorporates
the common human heart-

the 'I' becomes the 'we'
suffering that's singular
assumes the plural

the same thread
that runs through the fabric
of every single life
where each act
of the drama
is played out--alone
but to end
in the blend
that bears the name:
' Our Oneness In Life's Sojourn'--

one person's tears
fall into a mysterious sea
that is the depository
of all tears---the ultimate home
that opens its doors
to every weary traveller
who bears no name
but requires no ID
to enter--

poetry then
is
our  own face
in the shared mirror

it's the message
the focal point
the quintessence
of a universal religion.

In the posterity of what he compromised of his double mortality; one of these would bifurcate from the fearsome tyranny that subsequently dragged him down as he yearned to free himself from her purging. However, it was understood that he would have to retreat from his ditopikótitas or bilocality that was lifting him from the rigging of the Shamaim, which serenely reserved a Myein or arcane cloister for him until he detached himself from the Olympo that made him experience how to achieve his maximum unification with the Christianismós that would transport him with his subsidiary death from confinement, being a fleeting ascetic exercise with Orpheus and Dionisio and being able to access the unitive way of contravening the Myein or confinement of himself, until when he transfigured with his Himation into locks of gold they follow him transporting towards an illuminating purgative construction. Vernarth had already indulged in paroxysmal serials that repeatedly vanished from the stigma indulged in the non-rational parapsychological that bilocated extra-sensory, between the same helots present and ambassadors of Orpheus and Dionysus.

After drinking the fermented Ionian among those present, a Thuellai glimpsed him with such impetus that the glasses that broke in the same act, thus the lutrophores became weightless among this eternal battle between the eared handles of the carquesio, daring him to combine it with the rains of the tertiary zero that was settling on the Carquesians, and colliding with each other with those of their acolytes. Vernarth felt an abrupt alienation of the Myein towards a hyper-reality, but at the same time very aware that when the glasses crashed, they were made in thousandths of spaces in the realms that were detached from the hyper verbalized quantum with lexicons that emanated in the Duoverse way. ; That is to say, plenty of inspirations among the meditative and suspicious toasts when pretending to inherit from the Olympo, respecting and leaving the depositaries calm, noting that if one of them when grabbing the Lutrophorus had hirsute and hairy scarlet bristles activated in the back area of his hand right not hairy. Therefore, Vernarth realized that they were canons of the Kerberos in fact, and not of Orpheus and Dionysus, giving an immediate ovation of obedience and sudden minimal in the neglect of the place. This mechanism had broken down from a monotheistic hypersensitivity when he learned that there was a huge abyss of asceticism that distanced him from the underside of a possible cabal that supremely raised him with roots of hyper-meditative and illusory alienation that transferred him to the new reel of Hecate, which he reverberated with spells as he saw that his Kerberos distended from some hoopoe that lightened on Hecate's shoulders as they usurped Hestia's Olympian oikonos. Behold, Hestia's acquiescence was always close in Vernarth's metaphysical incursion, in such a way that the aviforme Hoopoe duplicated itself on Vernarth's shoulder blades, after emigrating from all the regions that were unknown to him, only from this ******* that is only possible optically sensitive in each hoopoe, and in each Vernarth shoulder after the transmigration of the great litters of blatant nocturnal Athena, not being condemned souls of Athena; but rather an owl with its wings wounded at its apices by splinters of coagulated serum from the very elytra of the Little Owl, a product of the severed of Hephaestus when cutting the skull of Zeus with his ax. Here is in this sub-quantum submission of how it implies that Vernarth takes himself from the elytra of the Little Owl, in order to impel him and achieve the conquest of the flight to Patmos where all his comrades were waiting for him, transforming his body into cells of Glaux of the Greek root γλαύκος (Glauko, bright towards an Ohr Hassadim), ibid of the same Hellenic as he traveled with the wings of the lustrous news that accompanied him, to ensure his return from the nebulosity to Ohr del Shamaim himself, pointing to the death throes of immobility of the team of oxen, which would never move from the wheels to take Lucia of Syracuse to the brothel, without the consent of Hashem.

Behold, Vernarth also within his ethnobotanical oikonos began to come off his second death as Astragalus Glaux with the sharp flowers of his garden famous in his allegories and belongings of herbaceous and confined litanies, which were the same ones that resisted his machinations by splitting them the calcaneus to its hoplites at the Arbela Site, unimpeded by some Astragalus Glaux that suffered in the substrate beyond its narrow ellipses, grouping them in the bleeding calcaneus of its phalangists, where the same length of the leaves served as peduncles dissecting and crystallizing the wounds of his faithful warriors. As a dry evergreen leaf, it was disconnected from the Glaux capsule that shone brightly from the constellation of Orion, and from Barnard's flowered loops, resembling par excellence the shape that extended to the cubic dome of the feet of all its soldiers. Falangists when at once they showed him once that they healed with the healing effect of Astragalus.

This sub-quantum could be attributed to a presumed stalking subplot, separating him in alienation but at the same time benefiting the concentrated attraction towards Sudpichi's coordinates in the Transverse Valleys from where his mother appeared to him from the Castle of Horcondising. His mother does not ask to feel part of some interference in the final awakening of his parapsychology, much less obstructing his liberation from the purgation that was already a concrete reality. Behold Luccica; her mother embodied herself in Thetis, giving her the imaginary role to interpellate in the final ceremony of Himation. Since Thetis constituted the sacred voluntary value of the Hellenes, towards a policy of agreeing her body in submitological assessment that would be legitimized once from the subsidiary body when it was split from its second incidental death of Olympo, already prepared to warn that Hephaestus had severed it. the head to Zeus when he prevented the birth of Athena, but he had two depository heads of the ingredient of Cronion-Zeus remaining until finally in this conclusive edict Luccica could receive his extemporaneous soul after being freed from the retrograde parapsychology that was re-launched in Piacenza. This exerts manumissions that are stubborn of his own will, but exercised through other deities, here Luccica had already learned that Vernarth was released from his kathartírio or Purgation, generating reconciliation with the church of Smyrna that had just been the final epilogue in Elegy VIII, as a concern of liberation such as Vernarth from the Chains of the purgation, as was what Tethys undertook when liberating Zeus from the chains with the drama of Fifth of Smyrna, from where some hold remained in the arms of the mother Vernarth with a duplicate of Achilles, but being Vernarth who was acclaimed with blood brother of all the lineage of the Heroes of the Triumph of the Hellenic Death.

Beacons of light
Created through my souls' power
Of bright hearted care, visions of clear accomplishments, magnetic self-confidence, and unfiltered sounds of a thunderous power
of true goals in loving reason
Such energy shot from my heart
Flying like the colors of the rainbow
Seeking out hearts weakened.
Those hit the hardest...
At their weakest hour
Those who have had their blissful natures battered by darkness' treason.
And their peaceful notions replaced with the haunting shrieks of darker horror.
It scours...
All bright particles from its victims.
A creature of destruction...
A blood thirsty vampire.
in need of another's soul
In which to nourish and quench the endless evil thirst
Your memories of brighter days.
Your bright emotions...
Such are fluids of power.
Shedding darkness as it attacks...Exchanging such dark energies for the more powerful bright ones
In which to feed him...


By the entity's black storm of " non creative, self-hearted selfishness, - a cold arigance, and shallow hate."
As it feeds upon you.
The beast steals the valuable and great powers that are the inner warmth of beauty and self-hearted strengths...
Inside of your heart.
Weakening a soul as it floats away
Leaving a comatos  heart in darkness
Once such which was bright and true.

Exchanging the Happiness and Kindest of your soul
Filling your beating heart.
Strengthenin' the hatred, dark filled impulses, and destroying your self-empowered energies... This beast is "cheerleading the darkness" as it has once ****** from your soul.
Replacements of the evil, in which in your soul, was empty.
This beast enjoyed to have ,started a "Depository of A Parasitic Empowered Stride"
As deep, within your secret portions of your soul's closets, in which you have dark moments held there/
Locked, inside this vault.
A Means in which to maintain an "empowering and healing self stride"
You remain.
Stripped of love and burning with anger.I witness such and fight for your honor.

Upon my "white horse" I ride.
Chasing the "Beast of Sorrow"
I have armed myself with the " sword of tomorrow."

With " Truth's Scepter of Selflessness.." I chase this beast and wish to vanquish it from your soul...

I charged up and stabbed the enemy visitor's energy source.
A cloud created of pain, fear, and the energies of despair
A foul creature who feeds upon his victims.
No more energy as my Scepter blasts it back inside of your battered will.
Until your soul is clean and bright "
You can "build your newer kingdom "
From the ashes of darkness and the building materials of light...
Through ******* all your happy, blessed, and loving memories from your soul.

Through ******* the energies, which his fangs feast upon, he starts shooting the "blood of the darker visions and fears"

Exchanged from becoming light.
You start to grow to the dark... within your soul.

Into it's void...
I struck hard and destroyed the monster.
Once bitten and dark I had to fight and prepare for the fight
I was one who would overpower and destroy.
That " One, who has feasted and plagued...
a now bright heart leaps before you.
Sheltering  you from his touch and presence.
A "Trojan Horse" acting with a script until this evil partnership is ended.
Protection of others feeds my energy as it refills yours...New rules to employ.

Fighting to the end
Battling this Greedy Monster
In protection and ensuring that innocence will never be forgotten.
A fight worth the blood, sweat, tears, and a broken truth "******"
Through " Blind ignorance."
Energies which are that of PURE Evil.

So that loyalty, love, and the caring, and stronger wills
Beings, once strucken by him or once darkened by his feast upomn them

Such forces Can be restored..or remain as such...
I stay strong.
I enjoy.Fighting for those " stricken and now weakened."
True Souls...
Stripped of Truth and the honor of "Dignity's Flag..."



I conquered the beast of Darkness by the light of the Scepter.
I wield my sword and shot it into the "vacant area" that once was this beast's heart.Your soul was renewed out the dead one's.
from my own " Heart's energies shared with your werakned will
and fighting for true care for you and Humanity
I return to my "Fortress of Valour."  My "Happy Place" and My "Strongest Fortified  Laier."

In my mind there have always been simple premises
*** with no witnesses…Love, always limited.
Words not spoken, leaves hearts unbroken.
I mean really, it would be truly silly
For me to walk that road again, unsure of what was around the bend
In this road of life…no thanks…too much strife.
Instead it’s been mostly easy for me
To bend at the knee
While bearing your weight behind me
Turned away from you, disallowing me to see
The pleasure and pain in your eyes
That no amount of copulation can hide.
Or maybe not wanting you to see that as you take me with you
I shatter into pieces untrue
To myself and my very nature.
In my mind’s eye I know for sure
That there is nothing more pure
Than soft light illuminating the walls of morning
When I wake up, yawning
Stretched out beside my king without a care in the world…
But I digress.
Allowing myself the indulgence of such
Would leave me exposed and open a little too much

Naked.

But something about the way he sees what I don’t show
As if in his own mind’s eye he may know
All the very core secrets of my being
The hurt and pain and pure unraveling
Of my soul
For which I’ve had no control
In months now that have passed
And I’ve simply been content to lend out my ***
No questions asked, no feelings spent
Shoulders down and knees bent
I present myself to him this time
And I feel his fingers slowly run up the back of my legs
Over my behind
And then onto my spine.
He asked me without a moment’s hesitation
To do something which caused deep contemplation
On my personal part and on the part of my heart
Because this wasn’t our deal at the start.
I suppose I should have known this much
Judging from his awesome touch
And the way he often treats my body like a holy place
Marking me with his hands, his lips upon my face
Between these ***** he pauses to sup
Drinking greedily from my coven cup.
There’s no sipping and pinching off small pieces
Oh no…he eases
All of himself into me
Stripping me free….

And naked.

So here I stand
In front of this man
Whose making me for the first time in a long time
Deal with issues of neglect and abandonment all mine
Standing before him I’m not alone
And somehow feel elated to be on this throne
His queen, a place already prepared
As his strong hands grab my ******* and thread through my hair
What I’m feeling is nothing like
The arguments full of spite
I’ve left now far behind
As our tongues wrestle…his with mine.
My prior life feels like a total mystery
Like someone else’s life…not even a part of my history.
Failed nuptials, ill-fated one-night stands
They are all forgotten in the arms of this…
One true man.
He’s not here as my reminder of those things
That can only prove to bring
Unrest and distrust in this present coupling.
Why should I share the hate
Why should I make every topic a debate
A battle royale, with wagers and bets
This new feeling is something beyond the obvious
of ***…

I’m Naked.

My garments are gone, as tears stream down my face
This body wholly consumed and now prostrate
No longer in fear of exposure and waste
Quite totally and fully his
Not just a depository, opening up for what's his
But a true Goddess I’ve become, transformed
No longer satisfied and happy with the norm
Of conformity in life and relationship
Oh hellz no…fug that shid.
I’ve stripped for him and bore it all
And now wait patiently for him to fill these walls
With his life-force, overstanding and supplication
My heart and legs, open for consummation
Of this new marriage and eternal bond
Built on what’s to come, not from whence we’ve come
A true woman, not a girl-child attitude
Yolks more evenly balanced, I’m now glad for a life of servitude
I’ve gladly taken this route emotionally
To trust you, then love you, then touch you
Starting anew…

Naked.

Mist becomes my eyes as I see you no longer
Pronged with the tounge which once  spoke sweet nothings to my light which vaguely glistens in its kingdom
My Niagara no longer falls but instead freshets, causing damage to all things which  stand  in its path,  smiting   the unyeilding
You became my opioid, your kiss was   my aortic
Your chest was my boid and your feelings became  metaphoric,  saying

Your peace is my blanket
Your body is my home
Between your thighs I rise
Connected become our eyes as I ****** my love into the abyss
Now I leave , like I never came
I am not a peasant in eden
With you I leave no trace, for I lied  because I knew you would believe them
Intended to bring change to your heart like a depository but my contributions were not of goodness
With your mind I was fruitful and multiplied, you thought you were befitting, as I occlude your shade, know that I was and am flitting...away

i don't see how there can't be
a simple Cartesian implosion
of
counter-intuitively
saying:
i exist before i even know
that i exist:
or at least comprehend it...

which is twice as true
as how
life: regardless of my sentiments
of flow:
the moon:
tides...
i think therefore i am
is a resolute of competence
and knowledge seeking:
surgeons have the modus operandi
of i think therefore i am:
such the proximity of failure:
disaster...  mistake...

eureka! did you find Europe
expanding as the funnel for peoples travels:
like the casual commute:
or did you find: i think...
it's hard to find i am in i think:
let alone i think in i think
in i in ?
or is that !
                i don't know:
it's like the second slaughter of a cow
when the steak is not done
medium rare but treated like
a Sunday Roast...

onomatopoeia: please! please!
enlighten me... ? = hmmph
and ! = ah / gee!

    i want my tongue back:
my tongue is not some morbid fetish
you have at the altar of his ****...
the serpent is my tongue:
i want it back:
you can keep the fruit that labor
with glee:
i want my tongue back:
you can have the serpent story
the apple the tree:
Y Y
  
∇       Δ

NABLUE DELTOUS...

         i'm sending the two H emissaries...
naHblue: delTHous:
one married the trininity: the mother Tau
and became F of if thigh:
the other:
intact: Cain: Esau...

        the vowel catcher and the laughter-generator...
hideous bunch...
so one became a priest:
a surd: a servant:
a silent alliance of letters written
but not said:

salad, plenty of that:
i still want my tongue back...
where does my voice
otherwise escape to?
rhetoric or cognisance...
       cognisanze...
         seance... eons... ae...
         cognisant.... cognizant!

jeez: what a burden triple eyes
getting to watch a boy get dribbled...
peanuts: candy... dental floss!
dental floss: peanuts: candy!

now i will brush my teeth and drink less
and feel brushing with authority:
but not yet off the mark
on being the daddy and dream team
soccer coach on Kauai...
as that isn't: claustrophobia from sexless
you want to play the dragon
but still dealing with two serpents...
one in the tongue and one
in the phallus...

    i was not aware of having any
reproductive know-about depository PO BOX...
my two serpents were always one:
confused by women
with such intellect that images
became black and white...
word... simply put...
           she confused his **** to his vocal
bass-box...
to my ****: to the *******...
to: the serpent is the tongue in
a dragon's mouth...
       i don't think i have a ****: i have a cockerel
morning y'all!
        i have a juicy ****...
i sometimes imitate
when jerking off the Jeckyl & Hyde
of a limp-dickery...

otherwise VOUS for a hard TH
or FOES for a soft TH...                 pH:
soft water: nutritional scrutiny:
an alkaline or an acidic diet...
bad teeth: probable suicide or just bad
nutrition? Mark Legget already knows.