NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that
       such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
       such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
       such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
with feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
and all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.

As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
we scrape and *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

The ***** grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
“You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.

While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.

Mid *** shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
to tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
(In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
- like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
“the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
“To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
“Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
“Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
“Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
avoid the stares, avoid the snares, avoid the veiled typhoons
and fend your way as every day, ’gainst heavy heeled dragoons.”

The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.

While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”

With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.

The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches after while”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.

The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
(“the last are first, the rich are cursed” - the leached remain the least)
with crossing signs and ****** wines and consecrated yeast.
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and, bored, he nods to Eden East
but doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.

The sinking sun’s at last undone, the sky glows faintly red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.

Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites on foggy nights and days like crystalline.
A migrant feeds on gnats and weeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.

The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.

The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.

The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.

At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.

The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from  Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”

The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...

preliminary explanation

before i really begin the project i have a few scatterings
of thought that made me do this, without real planning,
a different sort of impromptu that poetry's good at,
less Dionysian spur-of-the-moment with an already
completed poem entwined to a perfect ensō,
as quick as the decapitation of Mary Boleyn with the
executioner fooling her which side the swing would
be cast by taking of his hard-soled-shoes -
i mean this in an Apollonian sense - i know, sharp contrasts
at first, but the need to fuse them - i said these are
preliminary explanations, the rest will not be as haphazardly
composed, after all, i see the triangle i'm interested it
but drawing a triangle without Pythagorean explanation
i'm just writing Δ - i'll unravel what my project is
about, just give me this opportunity to blah blah for a
while like someone from an existential novel;
what beckoned me was the dichotomy of styles,
i mean, **** me, you can read poetry while in an awkward
yoga position, you can read it standing up, sitting down,
eating or whatever you want - obviously on the throne
of thrones taking a **** is preferred - the point being
what's called serious literature is so condensed for
economic reasons, font small, never-ending paragraphs,
you need an easy-chair and a bottle of cognac to get
through a chapter sometimes - or at least freshly mowed
grass in a park in summer - it's really uncomfortable because
of that, and the fact that poets hardly wish upon you
to be myopic - just look at the spacing on the page,
constantly refreshing, open-plan condos, eye-to-eye -
but it's not about that... the different styles of writing,
prose and the novel, the historical essay / encyclopedia
or a work of philosophy - what style of writing can
be best evolutionary and undermine each? only poetry.
poetry is a ballerina mandible entity, plastic skeletons,
but that's beside the point, when journalism writes history
so vehemently... the study of history writes it nonchalantly,
it's the truth, journalism is bombastic, sensationalist
every but what courting history involves -
a journalist will write about the death of a 100 people
more vehemently than a historian writing about the Holocaust...
or am i missing something? i never understood this dichotomy
of prose - it's most apparent between journalism and history...
as far as i am concerned, the most pleasurable style of
prose is involved in the history of philosophy, or learning per se,
but i'll now reveal to you the project at hand -
it's a collage... the parameters?

the subject of the collage

it weighs 1614 grams, or 3 lb. and 8 7/8ths oz.,
it's a single volume edition, published by Pimlico,
it's slightly larger than an A5 format,
3/4 inches more in length, and ~1 centimetre in
width more, it has a depth of 1 and 3/4 inches in depth,
a bicep iron-pumping session with it in bed -
i was lying with this behemoth of a book
in bed soothing out a semi-delirium state
listening to Ola Gjeilo's *northern lights
and flicking through the appendix, and i started thinking,
no would read this giant fully, would they?
the reason it's a one volume edition is because
the only place you'd read such an edition would
be in a library, at a desk, and you'd be taking snippets
out from it, quotes, authentic references points
for an essay, esp. if you were a history student,
such books aren't exactly built for leisure, as my arms
could testify... after the appendix i started flicking
through as to what point of interest would spur me
onto this audacious (and perhaps auspicious)
act of renegading against writing a novel (in the moment,
in the moment, i can't imagine myself rereading plot-lines
after a day or two, adding to it - that's a collage too,
but of a different kind - and no, i won't be plagiarising
as such, after all i'll be citing parallel, but utilising
poetry as the driving revision dynamic compared
to the chronologically stale prose of history) - i'll be
extracting key points that are already referenced and not
using the style of the author - the book in question?
Europe: a history by Norman Davies prof. emeritus
at U.C.L. - the point of entry that made me mad enough
to condense this 1335 page book (excluding the index)?

point of incision

Voltaire (or the man suspected of Guy Fawkes-likes spreading
of volatility in others) -
un polonais - c'est un charmeur; deux polonais - une
bagarre; trois polonais, eh bien, c'est la question polonaise
(one pole - a charmer, two poles - a brawl, three poles -
the polish question) - mind you, the subtler and gentler
precursor of the Jewish question, because the Frenchman
mused, and not a German, or a Russian brute...
and i can testify, two Polish immigrants in a pub,
one senior, the other minor, one with 22 years under
his belt of the integration purpose, one with 12 years,
the minor says to the senior about how Poles bring
the village life to cities, brutish drunkards and what not,
it was almost a brawl, prior to the senior was charming
a Lithuanian girl, before the minor's emphasis on
such a choice of conversation turned into idiotic Lithuanian
nostalgia about the disintegration of the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth, primarily due to the Polish nobility.

10,000 b.c.

looking that far back i don't know why you even
bother to celebrate the weekend -
i mean, 10,000 years back Denmark was
still attached to Sweden,
England was attached to France,
and there was a weird looking Aquatic landmass
that would become a myth of Atlantis
in the Chronicles of Norwich,
speedy ******* Gonzales with the equivalent
of south america detaching itself from Africa...
mind you, i'm sure the Carpathian ranges are
mountains. they're noted here are hills or uplands,
by categorising them as such i'm surprised
the majority of Carpathian elevations as scolded
bald rocky faced, a hill i imagine to have some
vegetation on it, not mountain goats with rock and roof
for a blacksmith in a population of one hundred...
at this point Darwinism really becomes a disorientating
pinpoint of whatever history takes your fancy,
Europe - mother of Minos, lord of Crete,
progenitrix / ******* and the leather curtains
of Zeus's harem (jealous? no, just the sarcasm
dominates the immortal museum of attachable
****** to suit the perfect elephant **** of depth
the gods sided with, by choice, excusing the Suez
duct tightening of a prostate gland... to ease the pain
upon ******* rather than *******); mentioned by Homer
the Blind tooth-fairy, the Europe and the bull,
Europoeus and the swan, same father of wisdom to mind,
on the shores of Loch Lomond -
attributes a lover to the bull, Moschus of Syracuse,
who said earring Plato cured him of where the ****
should not enter even if it shines a welcome
in the disguise of Dionysius... revisionists bound to Pompeii
named Titian, Rembrandt, Rubens Veronese
and Claude Lorrain revived the bulging bull's *******
and her mm hmm mm, too gracious my kind, hehee...
Phonecians from Tyre and Io - so too the Sibyl of ****** -
and unlike the great river civilisations of the Nile,
the Ganges, soon to be the Danubian civilisations
and gorged-out-eyes-that-once-sore-colour-but-lost-sight-of-
colours-­after-seeing-the-murk-of-the-Thames...
soon the seas overcame civilisations of the rivers,
as Cadmus, brother of the thus stated harlot said:
i bring you orbe pererrato - hieroglyphics of the cage,
but not an owl or a hawk inside it -
so let's perfect speaking to an encoding by first
rummaging into learning how to procure the perfect
forms of counting - i say left, you say I, i say right
you say II, left right left right, what do you say?
VI. bravo! the Hellenic world just crossed the Aegean
and civilisation bore twins within the cult of a lunar-mother,
Islam of Romulus and Remus, a she-wolf
a canine of the night - according to another -
tremulae sinuantur flamine vestes - or so the myth goes -
a cherished phantom of what became the fabled story
of sole Odysseus with his ears open and the remnant
sailor's ears waxed shut - as if the bankers of this world,
revelling in culprit universal fancy than nonetheless
bred the particular oddities - lest we forget,
the once bountiful call of the sirens to the oceanic
is but a fraction of what today's sirens claim to be song,
a fraction of it remains in this world, the onomatopoeia
of the once maddening song, the crude *******
arrangement of vowels bound to the jealous god's
déjà vu of the compounding second H.

from myth to perpetuating a modern sentiment

you can jump from 10,000 b.c. to the Munich Crisis
of 1938 - 9 with a snap of the fingers,
imitating quantum phenomenons like gesticulating
a game of mime with Chinese whispers necessary,
if Europe is a nymph, Naples her azure eyes,
Warsaw her heart, Sebastopol and Azoff,
Petersburg, Mitau, Odessa - these the thorns
in her feet - Paris the head, London the starched collar,
and Rome - the sepulchre.
or... die handbuch der europaischen geschichte
notably from Charlemagne (the Illiterate)
to the Greek colonels (as apart from Constantine to
Thomas More in eight volumes, via Cambridge mid
1930s)... these and some other books of urgency
e.g. Eugene Weber's H. A. L. Fisher's, Sr. Walter Ralegh,
Jacob Bronowski... elsewhere excavated noun-obscurities
like gattopardo and konarmya had their
circas extended like shelved vegetables in modern
supermarket isles, for one reason or another...
prado, sonata sovkino also... some also mention
Thomas Carlyle (i'd make it sound like carried-away isle,
but never mind); so in this intro much theory,
how to sound politically correct, verifiable to suit
a coercion for a status quo... Europe as a modern idea,
replacing Imperum Romanun came Christendom,
ugly Venetian Pirates at Constantinople,
Barbarossa making it in pickled herring juice
in a barrel to Jerusalem... once called the pinkish-***-fluff
of Saxony, now called the pickled cucumber,
drowning in his armour in some river or Brosphorus...
alchemists, Luther and Copernicus were invited on
the same occasion as the bow-tie was invented,
apparently it was a marriage made for the Noir cinema,
beats me - hence the new concept of Europe,
reviving the idea of Imperium Romanun
meant, somehow including Judea in the Euro
championship of footie gladiator ***** whipped
narcissists, rejecting the already banished Carthage
(Libya / Tunisia by Cato's standards) and encouraging
the Huns, the Goths and the even more distant Slavs and
Vikings to accept not so much the crucifix as
the revised spine of the serpent but as the geometry of
human limbs, well, not so much that, but forgetting
Norse myths of the one-eyed and the runic alphabet
and settling for ah be'h c'eh d'ah.
dissident frenche stink abbe, charles castel de st pierre
(1658 - 1743) aand this work projet d'une paix perpetuelle
(1713) versus Питер Великий who just said:
never mind the city, the Winter Palace... i have aborted
fetus pickles in my bedroom, lava lamps i call them.
the last remaining reference to Christianity?
Nietzsche was late, the public was certain,
it was the Treaty of Utrecht, 1713, with public reference
to the republica christiana / commonwealth was last made.
to Edmund Burke: well, i too wish no exile
upon any European on his continent of birth,
but invigorate a Muslim to give birth on it
and you invigorate an exile nonetheless:
Ezra expatriate Pound / sorry, if born in eastern
europe a ***** Romanian immigrant, pristine
expatriate in western Europe, fascist radio has
my tongue and *****, so let's play a game:
Russian roulette for the Chinese cos there's
a billion of them, and no one would really mind
a missing Chow Mein... chu shoo'ah shaolin moo'n'kah!
or a cappuccino whenever you'd like to watch
classic Italian pornographic cinema with dubbing
with nuns involved... Willaim Blake and his
stark naked prophesy, pope pius II (treatise 1458)
even though Transylvania, Tharce and Hungary
shared the same phonetic encoding with diacritical
distinctions like any Frenchman, German,
or Pole at the Siege of Vienna (1683)
to counter the antagonising Ottoman - i swear historians
do this one purpose, juggle dates and head-of-state figures
prior to entering a chronology - they must first try out
a ******* carousel before playing with the toy-train...
broadcasting to a defeated Germany public, T. S. Eliot
(1945) ****** import to into Western Germany
and talk of the failing moral fabric, China laughing
after the ***** intricacies of warfare of trade,
what was once wool we wished to be silk...
instead of silk we received vegetarian wool, namely
hemp, and Amsterdam is to blame... nuke 'em!
that's how it sounds, how a historian approaches
writing a history from the annals, from circa and
circumstance and actual history, foremost the abbreviations,
the fishing hook standards, the parameters,
the limits, and then the mathematics of history,
one thing culminating into another... contra Lenin
N. S. Trubetskoy, P. N. Savitsky, G. Vernadsky
Russian at the perks of the Urals - steppe Tartar shamans
or salon pranced pretty **** boys? where to put
the intoxicant and where to put the mascara... hmm,
god knows, or by 21st calculations, a meteor;
they say the history of nations is a history of women,
then at least the history of individuation
and of men who succumb to its proliferation
is astoundingly misogynistic.
Seton-Watson, among the the tombstones too reminded
of remarkable esteem and accomplishment
with only one gravedigger to claim as father...
as many death ears as on two giraffe skeletons
stood Guizot, men of many letter and few fortunes,
or v. v., incubators of cousin ***** and none the kippah
before the arrogant saintly diminished to
a justly cause of recession, ha ha,
by nature's grace, and with true advent of her progression
as guard-worthy pre- to each pro-
and suggested courteous of the ****** fibre,
oh hey, the advent of masqueraded woofing,
a Venetian high-brow, and jealousy out of a forgotten
spirit of adventure that once was bound
to hunting and foraging... forever lost to write  history of
a king dubbed Louis the XIV...
crucibles and distastes for the state to be pleased,
once removed from Paris, forever to Angevin womb
accustomed once more, at Versailles released -
as cake be sown so too the aristocratic swan necks
for worth of mock and scorn - and the dampening rain
rattle the blood-thirst of the St. Bartholomew's Day
slaughter, to date, the rebirth of Burgundy,
of Anjou, and with the dead king presiding, to be
of no worth in judging himself a king before god or pauper...
saluer Antoine Quentin Fouquier-Tinville!
that i might too in stead rattle a few bones prior to burial
with the jaw that will laugh and chatter least
had it been to my kingly-stead a birth so lowly.
then at least in satisfactory temperament i procure a
judgement of the noble like of a *****
for an hour's worth of pistons and jarring tongues...
as if from a nobleman then indeed as if from a *****,
for who sold Europe and said: Arabia, if not the
Frenchman, the Englishman, the Spaniard?
the former colonial conquests served you not enough?
i imagine the reinstatement of Israel like
the Frankish states under Philippe-August...
precursors to a cathedral dubbed Urban the 2nd's..
there were only Norwegian motives in the Ukraine
and the black sea... Israel to me is like plagiarism
of the Frankish states of the middle-east, with Europe
slightly... oom'pah loom'pah mongolian harmonica.
some said Rudyard Kipling poems,
some said Mr. Kipling's afternoon tea cakes -
whichever made it first on Coronation St.
some also say the Teutonic barbecues -
it was a matter of example to feed them hog
and cannibalise the peasants for ourselves,
a Prussian standard worth an army standard of
rigour - Ave Maria - letztre abendessen nahrung -
mein besitzen, wenn in die Aden, i'd be the last
talking carcass...
gottes ist der orient!
gottes ist der okzident!
nord - und sudliches gelande
ruht im frieden seiner hande.
germany's lebensraum, inferiority and classification,
inferior slavs and jews, genetics and why my
hatred of Darwinism is persistent, you need
an explanatory noting to make it auto-suggestive
for Queen & Country? diseased elements,
Jewish Bolshevism, Polish patriotism,
Soviets, Teutons, the grand alliances of 1918
or 1945? Wilsonian testimony of national self-determi

In a field of red roses by the lake,
A white rose calls up to the sun
With her beautiful petal scarf
And her cheerful smile
Over another field, a tulip stands sad
He is one in the crowd, no one special
“Smart,” some say, “too shy” others may
But he struggles, moving his cheek

The tulip looks at the ethereal rose every day
Wondering how such a flower grew from the floor
An angel’s tears of joy, he might think
A kiss from Gaia, he would have hoped

Tulip doesn’t know much of the rose
And fears never being able to embrace her
He feels that both have too much in common
But his inner parasites would hurt her
For a majestic rose that dances with the moon in the water
Such normal tulip will never have a chance
Her perfect stem is made of silk
His is damaged and made of paper

Still, the tulip dreams
Wishing one day to fly, as his roots would rip
Detaching from the floor, from his forlorn life
Flying towards the star reflected in the lake, where his solitude would end

The white rose doesn’t realize, still
How much he admires her strength, cleverness, and beauty
Until the tulip sends his seeds of love
In the form of this poem and painting

For a more radiant future he fights
Forever aligned with the Astraea of his heart
Because she glows in the night
Inspiring him to be better
And even if the rose doesn’t recognize the tulip
She should know that he is right there
In an everyday battle to talk to her
He is smart and shy, but eager to give all his petals to see her smiling for him

I notice it, I notice it's flaws. I see its texture, I witness the shapes and metamorphic coherency's. It's all aligned in a wild pattern. Like walking in a catastrophic maze and never finding the ending.
But to really observe profusely, the maze has its own pattern, agenda.
Screaming to myself, aloud, I express myself grandiosely.
It all makes perfect sense
The missing piece is not missing, it never was, it was merely detaching.
Detaching from all life forms itself, like a cell that does not belong to another.
The maze was juxtaposed in its own creation.
People were too simple to understand it.
The jagged puzzle doesn't need another piece, it just needs a new formula, a new path, a new perspective, it needs to stay jagged in order to create more purposeful moments and inventions.
Complexities reach a higher peak than ever before, if you try to straighten the puzzle and find a piece to fit in it, you destroying its true and only purpose.
You cannot mold or fix something, you cannot sand it down.
You just need to let it be.
It's shapeless, it doesn't need a form, or a label.
It just is what it is to be.
And that is the secret. The contradiction needs to stay as the contradiction in order to invent the expedition.

I don't notice when my grip slackens.
The thoughts that held me have long since faded
into the hummmm that rattles through silence.

Untethered, I lose myself. Seemingly
broken into a pack of wild dogs
whose howls and moans echo distantly

Mingling with words uttered aloud
For no one's benefit: "Please, just stop it,"
tumbled down into particulate sound.
(As fine as sand.)

Those fragments that find their way back to me
snap capricious jaws, and left uncertain,
I flinch away from unfamiliar teeth.

1
the goose is putting signature
on the plume detaching from its tail

the queue is overflowed with crowd

groping in the memory of the gathering people
so many safety pins and cello-tapes
are found  

on the shoulders of some wayfarers
there is the stammering cold

2.
the body-language of the moon
is being so changed

the enthusiastic may test

blood came down
when the tap is on

and sweat

now birds from siberia
are flowing in through the disc antenna

the dravidian air is ever changing

now none can get ruined
following all the grammar

3.
the sole hunger of the winter
is being noted down in the note book
covered with human-skin

the clouds of the summer and the rainy season
are salivating

the garrulous spiders are detaching the shells
of the dead deer and putting the gardens in the iron-chest

throwing dry leaves to shoo away the coke
oh, the sleeveless palms
are all the new girl-friends ok

4.
putting on the rain-coat to save the skin
or it’s an armour
is your body safe
fireworks are twinkling
piercing
the fire-brigade has gone to a joyful journey with the clouds
admit the charisma of the bathroom
you the adult buffalo
don’t forget to tell
the experienced cormorants have  flown in from the marshland

5.
diving in search of kisses
I saw all are stings
even the wicker tray with the articles of ceremonial reception  
can’t escape bite
would you be clean
oh engrossed abir
so many flakes of snow on the branches of the guava tree
the festival is in your teeth  also
tame your blood
don’t submerge the river into the waves
and there is the sky
beg a rail  


6.
I pierced the clouds with my fore-finger
And the blood-stain touches my body
the wind which makes the doors and windows
open to public view I can’t stare at its eyes
I push the storm towards the yellow-leaves

7.
sometimes the river calls
as if she will fly like the winged horse
if she be let loosed
where  does she keep the sadness of her placenta
there is no flower-vase
the glass is good enough
though the lover glass has broken with the first kiss
the grass with aromatic roots trembles in the breeze from the candid wings  
the orna flies tearing the caterpillar
would you let your  salted water be wasted

8.
beside the comb there is hair
Is it soft green or the alkaline
How much relevant is that information
Rowing through which water the endemic comes
The afternoon-cloud giggled took permission and went home
bringing an end to today’s play
the unwashed plates after eating are placed on the basin
the night-cigarette goes burning in the mouth of air
on the coughs and expectoration floats the lost mast  

9.
the sands are shy to the extreme
They don’t loot anything
The bricks have much intimacy with the wild creepers
All the komonduls and lances  turned backward
Now you may easily spread your wet cloth in the air
One roof would have dialogues with another in the lost afternoon
One window have eye-sharing with the another

10.
there is the laugh
100% natural
Beauty is written on the eyebrows
that is also a game
new cloths at the time of puja
that is also an addiction
a hidden bunglow
under the tongue
no information of death

I am the pinnacle of controversy
Some say ******-my middle name
And still to others I represent freedom,
I am the pointed pentagram of blame.

Almost mothers spread cold-feet
Where I scrape and claw/vacuum aspirate eat.
From open, porous, space-between-legs
My Gnashing teeth-grind out the would be meat.
I am the noise that is never forgotten
Detaching zygotes from walls of womb
I am the reality of ****** indiscretion- the tomb

I do my job- do I play  “God” ?
For the “******” behind doors
Carrying secrets & dreams of more
They leave one less-plus future full-term
slide up their stockings & hope not to return

I’m the last to see the mothers-to-be
Before they change- rearranged
I see geometrically: each.separate.part:
Chalk eyes never wet just hurt
Lips-lined straight with shame
chins that never wobble- 50/50 tipped to pray
& feet with nowhere to fall, they walk away

I am the pin-cushion point of pain
To what the picketing protesters agenda is aimed
I am where pro-life and pro-choice meet
The executioner of straight to heavens unborn elite
I am the buzzing abortion machine.

The enchantment of wonder, imagination and wander
energy within every organism
molecular structure and chemistry betwixt
creation and destruction
balance and disorder
transformation to disintegration
Fire, Water, Earth and Wind
Blade to Staff to Stars to tongue
Knowledge and interpretation
Innocence to experience
Below and above
In and out
slanted and straight
divine and human
good and evil and everything between
light and darkness
realms of all kinds
Mind
Body
Spirit
connecting and detaching
protecting and attacking
magic and physics
true and false
justice and criminal
infinitesimal to astronomical
destiny is our own yet set......

i hate it when you have a hangnail but it is mostly a piece
of skin that is really steadfast about not detaching

from your finger. it’s like the piece of skin has
separation anxiety and you can’t get it

to leave ever

all you want is for the piece of skin to move out.
today is your twentieth birthday and you are thinking

about your mortality a whole bunch and how you have provided
the piece of skin with a comfortable home and now

you want it to move on and make a big life

for itself so when you’re old and more carrot-like
you will have the piece of skin to take care of you

until you are ready to make the big trip to hamilton

known as dying alone and feeling okay about it
because hamilton is a nice place to die alone

hamilton is a port city in the canadian province of ontario

you dream of hamilton and you are already a little bit more
carrot-like on this day, your twentieth birthday. we want the

piece of skin to get its **** together so we can all be happy
for you one day when the amount of carrot-like

characteristics you grow into becomes immeasurable

and creamy. the piece of skin smiles and says
it does not like your conservative-minded nonsense

the piece of skin feels as though it has a right to
prosperity and a new season of hey arnold

and its own episode of mtv cribs.

you say the piece of skin is too liberal and you
get out a pair of scissors and cut of your finger

the finger with the piece of skin that was too clingy
is now resting peacefully on the hardwood floor
of your apartment in a pool of blood that you are

proud to say is something you made on your own.
the piece of skin quotes hemingway as it dies

the reference goes over your head and the reader’s head too

A juerga with flamenco guitars,
With fires blooming like red flowers,
Corpses dancing in moonlight
The dance of wounded souls,
Vibrant red dresses
White shirts like birds,
Falling shawls,
Dancers,
Sky,

Claps,
Cubic
Movements of
Color, music's
Seeds, hands being wings
In shadows on the wall,
From soul detaching passion's
Lights, motion vibrating the string,
Resonance for a new dimension.

If we become thick
and syrupy with love,
we'll suffocate
and my utmost
thunderous roars
shall be muted
by the honey glaze

I'd rather crawl
on callous palms
through wilted flower-beds
caked in dirt
and wait and look
out and up into
cauliflower clouds
and create
my own extraordinary visions
of what It All should look like--

drowning and throbbing
and motionless forms in my mind
savage
silent wanderings
devilish and perverse

and I'll add them to the list
of things I'll never do
while in the background
through an anonymous window
"I" make love
to "you"

Each moment so meant
Each particle tickles
Soothing, yet chilling
Humbling, yet exhilarating
In this bliss I find contentment
And once again bask in my ability to understand that it is all so meant
Minty and cool
The breeze blows you this way and that way
Sway each day just to end up the same
Why do we make this some sort of a game we play?
Some sort of dream we convey
In the sea of what could be
I found you
You found me
The joy to be in this see
Oh the significance
The sign if I can see
Through all the in betweens that cloud my mind
I begin to want to fall behind
But truly I am getting ahead
I am falling into each thought, each sense, and each interaction
It is a contraction
A fraction of all, a piece to this maze that leads you to peace
To beneath your own skin, your own life, to him
To her and to us
It is all we, can’t you see
We get up and we go
Just to fold into no
We breathe in through our knows
And let go of our holds
No we can be free
Without gages, or wages, or ages
We just are
It is not far
It is right here, right now
If only you will let it
No more excuses, abuses, reuses, and unsureness
Just let it go
You reap what you sow
Think of your actions, your thoughts, and your words
They are all you have got to express how you feel
To make it all real
You are thought
You are dreams
You are sunbeams
You are infinite love and light
You are feel
It is surreal, this dreamboat we float on
It tips over and we scatter, it wrecks and we shatter
All this matter is not what matters
It comes and it goes
No need to attach or latch, it will all go, just as it came
It’s the same
This cycle is recycled and trialed
Only leading us to denial
It is time to take responsibility for what we emit
And admit and just quit the deceit
The scurrying and worrying
Just stop
Do it now
Breathe and perceive in your own way and just play
It’s okay
Do it now
Don’t put it off because you are too busy or too tired
Tomorrow I will stop
What if there is no tomorrow
Living just to borrow, existing in your own sorrow
Free yourself from yourself
You are beautiful
If you cannot believe that, then you know you are youtifull
So be youtifull, beyoutifull
It is all you have to do, is be you, exactly as you are
We are all just apiece to this puzzle
All completing each other
We are all of all
All love all!

Escapism Dream
Escapism dream
Heart crushed symphony
Strings of sound tied together by hope
This expression our only weapon to expose
All this oppression when we don’t even know the root
Our only savior each others’ demise
Oh my eyes to my soul cannot take this any longer
Spending our daze
In an oblivion maze
This haze
It pulls me into the unknown
A pool of uncertainty
All luring we
This wave
We came in on and shattered on the sure
Always needing more
Our hearts pour out of places unknown
Separation overgrown
Fumbling forward we gracefully gasp
As they take off their masks
Feeled up to our seal, time to reveal and re-feel
This ever-living ghost of what once was
Creeps through my new and leaves only fuzz
This dream quilt unraveling
The patches detaching
Yet the thread remains, it was love all along
Always sing our dream song

Those twin galaxies of yours
Beckoned on my sister oceans'shores.
I swam away, I heard the lore,
'A furtive glance will ask for more.'

I hid beneath these bitter waters
heaven graciously showers,
And sank to their esoteric depth-
My treasured detaching step.

But these shrouds are latent webs,
Impalpable yet enthralling herbs,
That compelled those galaxies
Towards my oceans'caged reveries.

Astral lights came flowing
On my secret crevices - cosmic cunning.
On faint surrender, oceans reflected
Those lights thought connected.

But you feared degrees unknown,
Ceased the sailing, you will never own-
They you thought mastered the song of lorelei,
The depths you will die.

Was it that shed leering glimmer
From distant galaxies hover
Around the interval that mist covers
And stirring these waters?

My immensity is foreboding,
Your vastness is deceiving.
Would our core surface, if in mist
You linger and I in abyss?

You intoxicate me with cosmic light nothing can sober,
But refuse to drink from my oceans' water.
Your galaxies shine on infinity
But are not my property.

You are locked on a cache, no one could immerse,
Owned by some private universe.
The lore of your galaxies, a blurred maze,
An immortal quest to my gaze.

There are two sides to all. Two sides
To the world, and where it may sit
On the wheel. Black or red?

A split of inheritance. Right sided
Dreams, left sided mornings. Mournings
For those fragments of imagination

Left gagged and bounded. Tamed by
Penny-pinching and waist-trimming
And all other concepts that work like

A chisel. Chip away at me, they happen
Like thorns and barbs until I don’t look
In mirrors. And I dare not breathe past sighs.

A split of inheritance. The joy of invention,
A brain for science. New discoveries smash
Like champagne bottles to bless understanding.

It splits. It splits in two. The descendants build
On the used brownfields. Grey matter on grey matter
As if building over condemned land.

The roses of love and star-travel are but one side.
A veneer, more accurately. For in their gift
We would pick apart their heads, our heads,

Forgetting the years of thicket and thorn that
Had grown underneath. In forgetting, they talk
Of surprise at our true nature, though the thorns came

Long before the flowers, and were ever-present throughout.

Each measure of wonder; of love and poem and comedy
Are cruelly tempered. They are tamed by lust.
Lust for power, for vengeance. In-group. Out-group.

Heads or tails? I lie instead on my side.
A fallow state, a false parade. Technicolor masts
To sail lazily on my false knowledge. I speak of compassion

And philosophy. I hope they validate me
In the same way certificates do, for those men in suits.
Their success apparent and substantial, its frame

Weighs heavy on me. Barbs and dead weight,
My breath perishes uselessly I feel. A dandelion head
Caught in a chain link fence or a jungle of concrete,
Full of promise, pregnant with fertility
In a sea of barren saltwater and cigarette ash.
There’s nothing left but to write. There are

Two sides, two sides to all. Two sides to my words,
The hope of a finished poem. The harrowing read-through
By the morning. A mourning for myself

And my inactivity. The breadth of life in other’s words,
Tales of movements, experience; novelties in my
Small-town mind. I dream of Peru.

Two sides to myself. Two sides as there is to all.
One side is a virtuoso. Tuxedo-clad and hair slicked back,
Detaching from its greased trap only through

My movements with the keys. A movement free
Of thought. A meditation of music, a collective
Unconscious of chords. It is a side.

The same side that tells of tales past. Man lived
Before money. If man dies, money is contracted to go too.
It is bound. It is rite. It is truth.

The other side, though. The other side
Begs and borrows. It casts anger at my dreams
And how they lighten my wallet so. It hacks

Away with my lungs. Cigarette tar laced in bronchioles,
The result of a dream unrealised. I fidget in this other side.
It makes me shift in my seat, forever impounding,

Forever confounding. Forever uncomfortable.

There are two sides, two sides to all.
One is the scope of man, the ideal self.
The other is the result. A bulb-lit scoreboard

Above our heads. Money signs and bloodlines
Are a measure of man. Our measure. Two teams;
One competing for gold, the other asking

Of what competition is at all. And so one side
Sees us as animals, our rules foolish and lame
Aside those of Nature (with a capital ‘N’)

And the other tells us it is all there is. At least
All that there is worth knowing. For what good
Is it, to dream of the stars? Or Peru, even?

If you do not have the successes to get there?

Two sides, there is forever two sides.
One is a love for myself and for all.
The other is brain-chatter. It tells me little

But it says a lot.

Escapism dream 
Heart crushed symphony 
Strings of sounds tied together by hope 
This expression our only weapon to expose 
All this oppression when we don't even know the root 
Our only savior each others demise
Oh my eyes to my soul cannot take this any longer! spending our daze In an oblivion maze 
This haze 
It pulls me into the unknown
A pool of unsureness
All luring us 
This wave 
We came in on and shattered on the sure 
Always needing more 
Our hearts pour out of places unknown, separation overgrown 
Fumbling forward we gracefully gasp as they take off their masks feeled up to our seal time to reveal and refeel! 
This ever living ghost of what once was creeps through my new and leaves only fuzz this dream quilt unraveling the patches detaching yet the thread remains it was love all along! Always singing our dream song.

Cooking up a blizzard.
Lost and unguided tendrils of space hold me captive,
the trebles of your heart beating
leads me back to my my Home.
That infinite gaze of yours into my dilapidated eyes,
is like a portal to you to look into my soul.
You blanket all my darkness
With your semi-pixie cut.
You’re my tree of knowledge
I bask in it’s shade.
Powdered Sugar coating on cupcakes.
Your silk armour protects your vulnerability,
My sincere apologies to all the arrows that gaped through.
Cover me under your angel wings,
Dab away my streaming reservoirs and replace them
with pollen and sweet nectar.
Your wishbone sacramental daydreams and dreams.
I feel so lost without you.
Bandage my old wounds with your tender hands,
Kiss me with your lush lips
sending jolts of star dust upstream,
within my veins dancing with yours palpitating feet.
My shot of euphoria and bleeding antidote.
My poetry.
You, Kalon.
Let’s raise a toast to your
beauté remarquable éternel, mon soleil
your free spirit,
your beauty of a ghost,
your heart racing with joy,
your heart steaming up with reticent sadness,
build up anger that come crashing down
like a typhoon detaching from the human perspecta.
I miss you.
Your emotional mess and literal mess,
I’m your magic broom.
You, my inspiration.
You, my groove.
You, my you.
You. My everyone and everything.
You’re fun filled supressed omnipresent electric feel.
You, The only Solis in my galaxy.
I love you.
Sharing your grandoise orangy tinge yellow light.
Bottling up a few star
in a bottle of red wine,
For her Luna.
Solis is 21 a (000,000,000) today.
**You’re irreplacable.

You can't let go of what makes you sad because it once made you feel so delighted. You can't and you won't ever try to move on in the first place because you still believe that things might change and it will make you giddy all over again. But as the time goes by, as you go through the process of detaching oneself from that person which is a very disturbing phase of moving on.

You are reminded of all the delightful memories that you had with them but at the same time those memories becomes morbid to even comprehend. You are reminded as well that what you thought was making you joyous, was never the right thing. It comes as whispers from your conscious mind telling you that the memories you valued most was wrong and everything was a lie.

A somewhat alternative reality composed of cobweb of lies. Made to somewhat manipulate you into thinking that they are really interested in you. You kept insisting that there might be things that are real.

You are in denial that at some point the things you thought aren't lies. It felt dreamy and felt like it's real but you were just dreaming while your eyes are open.

Now you're aware that what you feel is the process of detaching oneself to the person who you love so dearly but didn't loved you back.

.the fireworks are still going off, Guy Fawkes 2.0, and sitting there thinking... big bang... so there was a sound in vacuum? i see a firework go off, the bright explosive light, and then the thunderous balloon burst! boom! i tap my finger... i'm guessing a 1.2 second delay from seeing the light from the firework, and hearing the BOOM! so... in light of all this... are we 1.2 seconds ahead of the big bang, or 1.2 seconds behind it, actually having happened, as in: still happening... i mean... it's not like sound precursors light... and we are not exactly illuminating creatures for most part, but sure as ****, we're loud.

well...
   i might have been looking for
a needle in a haystack,
or whatever it was i was looking
for,
  but i have spoken to a few homeless
people...
i remember about four congregated
around me in Trafalgar Sq.
one sunny afternoon,
    and that was the point where i knew
i was losing it, detaching myself
from the conventionality of "reality":
having meaningless conversations
with people wearing NPC-masks...
the voice inside my head started
thin out... until it fizzled out and i turned
into a writing machine...
if i had the same internal-monologue
with myself, i wouldn't be writing this,
a gaping abyss agitated by whatever
interacts with it,
and subsequently prompts such writing...
i put my hand around one of
the homeless men,
he didn't like it, i comforted him,
we'll just talk...
   then he started explaining to me about
his spot in the Sq.,
  he stood up, and indexed the spot,
the spot where i sat next to him,
another came and sat akimbo
like a child, listening to me intently,
two teenage girls passed
and he asked them:
      what do you see in his (my) eyes?
they replied nothing...
still somehow mesmerized like a child
in a primary school, listening intently...
red as a beetroot from all the *****...
i ended up giving him a book
i just bought in an indie bookshop...
christopher marlowes Dr. Faustus...
i stood up and abstracted a square,
drew both my index fingers
   around a slab of pavement
asking the stupid question:
                     do you think it's there?
or inside your mind?
                  then the homeless man
sitting in akimbo introduced me
to a northern irish veteran with PTSD...
drunk like a skunk...
         and then we walked into
the homeless shelter together,
   they didn't let me in,
because i didn't remember my national
insurance number, or had the card
for that matter...
          weeks pass...
   imagine the chances of this happening,
in central London...
i bump into the same man who sat in
akimbo in Trafalgar Sq. on the streets
of Soho... the chances... or meeting someone,
randomly, a second time, in London?
******* slim... slimmer than size 0
catwalk models... more like size -1...
and he told me that a spider crawled
      into his ear...
    he said that he was going deaf...
                   so i walked into a shop
bought a few beers and we sat in
a church courtyard talking with his friend
who showed off his buddha tattoo
and said: i'm going to walk to India...
subsequently we were ushered out...
because we were breaking the law...
and i thought: but you serve wine in
the church, don't you?
    there was no argument...
then there was the instance in Leytonstone
with the homeless talking about
pneumonia of some woman they
were friends with...
               many pleasantries hugging
what not...
   but...
          the most profound instance i had
was just outside Romford train station...
the same man i would later sit down with
and offer a cigarette to in Seven Kings,
just outside the O'Grady's Irish pub...
       i've seen how people interact with
homeless people... that snarky attitude...
they stand and bend over while talking
to someone sitting on the pavement on cardboard...
a toned down version of paddy bateman...
this ridiculing with intimidation...
ugliest crap imaginable...
   so i sat with this man...
     gave him my spare fiver...
       rolled up a joint...
   we went around the corner to smoke it...
some kid with a football ran up to us,
we passed... and then we asked each other questions...
the kid said he wanted to become a footballer,
me and the homeless man encouraged
him to take his dream seriously...
quickly the marijuana high smirk
left his face...
    apparently i had a diamond on my forehead,
claimed the homeless man...
but then i asked the very touchy question...
so... what made you homeless...
  i'll never forget what he retorted with...
my mother told me to never tell a lie.
what?!
  so the only reason he was homeless was
because he was an honest man, prior?
   oh... so this is what makes men homeless...
honesty, for one,
   and along with honesty,
   other traits that elevate valor,
    alongside the many other virtues...
well... "who would have thought"?
               like that wasn't painfully obvious
to begin with... namely...
how the rats, the skivvy, the immoral,
the sadomasochistic overlords of
institutions become rewarded exponentially...
while the man who replies
to the homeless question with:
    my mother told me to never tell a lie.

anyone see the brain i put into the washing machine? i think they took it and hang it out to dry, although i still think it's in a pickle jar of jealous ***** juices, going round and round, getting a brainwashing treatment rather than the joke about the thief who didn't wear leather gloves and a tight ****** hat, who didn't pull out his nails or scrape off his fingerprints, or shave his eyebrows... i mean, hell, i'm not into brainwashing that much - the k.g.b. did the same sloppy job on litvinenko - **** me! all the neurologists in poland are mad, and an m.r.i. machine does not exist in that country! i must have been inside a rocky horror theme-park ride!

there's that famous connotation to pomp, ego tripping,
my my, what a grand psychoactive
drug this is, ever danced smacking your knees
as representation of drumming
with your eyes closed in
a club on the embankment of the river
thames? giggling away at
the chance of momentary blindness?
i'm not here to give a macho representation
of me, far from it,
later ******* in the alley:
every club or bar i went to always
played terrible music, and too loud,
so i stopped going,
too much lip-reading you see,
like with this nurse going to do a job
on the housing project at north harrow
tube station, breakfast stop-over
at the mcdonald's at tottenham court road,
dragging my father out from
the depths of depression after
a man who married my cousin undermined
his team and got kicked out of a
company that later went bankrupt:
indeed that cloud of flies entering my
ear like a rain of syringes, painful like hell,
no respect for the underprivileged in terms of
health, you look like you just had a brain
haemorrhage you get pampering like a panda,
you look strong enough in order to **** someone
they think you're a chizophrenic... nicely done...
nicely done n.h.s., i think i'll take my compensation
in pride and emotions rather than winning
the jackpot of the godforsaken thing that
alienates people: can't cook for themselves,
need restaurants, can't clean for themselves,
need cleaners... civilisation and the death of
intricate tribalism... foremost family...
mano a mano con mammon...
hey, i only asked for an m.r.i. scan, now
i'm split bilingually making one story force
and the other story true...
anyway, back to ego tripping,
ego tripping is indeed a drug, but it's a drug
where you can't coordinate thinking,
it's like a primeval expression of the cartesian maxim,
you just sit there, self-aware (being self-conscious
has negative connotations via sartre's keyhole /
voyeurism), you turn into an object,
for example a tree, you ego trip as the tree
and thoughts are replaced by seasons,
the wind, rain, insects, birds...
you can't identify with anything,
even if you're ego tripping and a theory of relativity
comes along, you can't attach yourself to it,
you're tripping after all...
it's just you and the chaos of thought, there's no
ordered linear method of thinking,
you're strapped to a unit that doesn't move
but is a spectator of other things moving,
attaching themselves, or detaching,
and it's not necessarily egotism, far from it,
it just mean an elevation of *cogito ergo sum,
how to make a blunt knife after it has been sharpened?
i guess ram it into bones or stones a thousand times,
or at least make dinner 360 times during a year
cutting soft flesh of tomatoes and cucumbers...
in terms of elevation i mean you're drunk
and you're tripping on the lack of thought,
a lack of a thinking cohesion / spider-web (
indeed the tarantula is a beggar among smaller
spiders, it has no idea of architecture, it hasn't
evolved technically speaking, tarantula the
anti architect)... so you're still tripping, because you
have no vector in sight, you're a pinpoint now,
a volatile coordinate, whatever thought comes into
range you can't narrate it... let alone vocalise it...
you're entering a void (jeez, this almost sounds
like making a waistcoat clock dangle and perform
a pendulum before opening the gates into
the subconscious and inducing hypnosis...
the gates into the unconscious are done by falling
asleep)... and then you sit down and decipher
all those thoughts buzzing around you that you
can't proceed from... ego tripping is best served
with alcohol - and it's hardly related to pomp,
esp. if you can't vocalise it and attribute the dropped jaw
of a ****** addict to be a symbiotic reflection...
or at least a carousel; in summary, ego tripping
is the cartesian ego sum, and no ergo and certainly
no ego cogito... well the ergo is there,
if you start to write something, but only then
when you step off the carousel.

Breaking down the barriers of exaltation after passion due to the fragmentations of the pointed Sarissas that rose from the dome of the monastery in an unknown vertical direction on the, as advocacy of propositional logic, to surpass the truth values on the crawling positions of the annelids and the alabaster elementals reformulating when detaching themselves from the monastery of Tsambika, as they engender contracted truth from the false truth that had been anticipated. Making from the tautological truth, going back all the memory and physics actions of the Hexagonal Progeny, deriving to atomic spaces, which are known to lock in the absolute truth of combinations of accessibility of exit and entered Patmos, as resulting from Omeganimias or links of spiritual polynomials that were dissipating to complement the departure to Patmos from Mandraki up to Skala, and on the other hand simultaneous Etréstles from Dekas; Kimolos for the remission of the Duoverse communion in the width of the celestial space. The tassels of the Vexillum of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, Eurydice, flamed, forming the triangle of the shape of Tsambika, with the triangle of the hexagonal that parliamentary of the stays, before heading to the navigation towards Patmos.
The Vexillum, carried by the wind itself Anemoi, was only carried by these golden gusts of earthworks towards the border of Rhodes, which until now was ancient Greece with its landmarks that the loyal spirits of Alexander the Great resisted accepting his death. Dazzling himself with this noble personification of the Anemoi, he re-establishes himself as part of Vernarth's prophetic and company to the island of the Apocalypse, which after the journey of Saint John the Apostle in Judah, the Cyclades, and the Dodecanese, would begin to relive the apocalypse. written under the mandate of the trinity, as a theological Tautology, running through the same originality and devotion of the heavenly mandate, but reencausing with the Hexagonal Progeny, as if it were rewriting it for the second Time, but from the Omega Point the completion of the Omega Temple on Patmos, to the areas of settlement of democracy and establishment of the Cycle of the Duoverse, as a transition to the rank of Hegemon of Patmos, to lead the spiritual military forces that raged, from the last vestiges from Pentecontecia in the Second Medical War in Plataea in 480 a. C., until the beginning of the Peloponnesian War in 433 a. C. towards the Athenian polis as a thread of their leadership of the nation, retracted by the reinforcement of their military supremacy, by the dominion of Spiritual Judaic, coming from the Hellenic existential inspiration, which spread with total expansion with the confederation of Alexander the Great, Vernarth and San Juan Apostle, as exclusivities that would increase the conclusive campaign of Tautological Omeganymy, shadow after shadow of the naval journey that awaited them with the Tracontero Eurydice, emerging from losses of democratic pacification, conventionally finite with the division and absolutist denial of Alexander the Great, reinstating itself in the Hexagonal Progeny, in accordance with the physiognomic materiality of the restructured Map of Cinnabar bound for Patmos.

The classicism of this operation will rise to the re-establishment of its Commander Hetairoi as the bearer of the Vexillum, under the acronym of IAV, meaning the Trinitarian Hellenistic-Vernarthian existentialism, for all Macedonian Christian children, servants of Jesus Christ, like the Mashiach. The reigns will rise to the last step and then they will fall into the crisis of entropic existentialism, with launching new languages beyond all known vocabulary, with speculative and adaptive pearls of wisdom of Hellenism that is reborn on Patmos, in the elaboration of the Temple of Omeganimia and the academicism of San Juan Apostle. Alexander the Great carries with him the upstart lines of the peripatetic school, walking through Phrygana, almost stepping on the low thicket and soft leaves and that, to the rhythm of the invaders' footsteps, reverberate them towards the dreaded ears of Vernarth, imaginary plant community in the Mediterranean forests, forests and shrubs that exist, but are lacking on Patmos, are only part of the creative imaginary, which are successful in limestone soils around the Mediterranean Basin, generally near the coast, where the climate is improved, but where the conditions annual drought in summer, suggestive of the resinous flavors of a scrub becoming a dressing for transplanted trees before they arrive to meet the Katapausis, the emblem of the Parables of Procorus.

Parables of Procorus

Petrobus the Pelican in one of his wanderings was distracted by some colonial migratory birds from Rhodes, while the Cinnabar was energized. He flew exceedingly, reaching the shores of Patmos, saving himself from returning to the ship with the others of the Birthright. Here he himself met Procorus, where after brushing against the Phrygana with his wings, he was inspired in praise of the Skalá sightings. Procorus in the understanding that he was inspired by this magical bird, I narrate to him from his cranial zone, the parables of his company as a servant bird of Raeder, together now with Procorus, to welcome the ship Eurydice that was already sailing to Patmos. This assertion by Petrobus was of the Hellenic existential time, therefore before they occurred it would reach real-time synchronization, after three hundred and sixty-nine oscillations of the Anemoi under its golden wings.

Parable of Phrygana: (says Procorus by vox from Petrobus)

On the banks of, lived some seeds that were admired by the lights of the cell of San Juan, feeling that it can only be a seed if it is not recognized by another that is the same. Knowing that it is not from the Phrygana genome, they will know that they will never be able to choose a larger size. For this reason, if a Kashmar could be a branch Daughter of Zeus and the titanic Metis: Athena (the Olive Tree) (Minerva). Aspiring to greater trees, greater than the skies of comparable to the wings of Petrobus brushing against the allegories of winter when Procorus becomes a seed that flows from the envelope of the thicket, turning from its own shadow into a monumental tree by day, but at night like Phrygana goblin.

Parable of the Alnus:

The consequence of the Alnus took them out of the oratory persistence towards the heights of a tree that begged its minorities. The raceme's inflorescence, with its leaf blades on a leaf blade, invited them to follow reactivation paths due to the axils of its largest branches. When a lost sheep was lost in the Alnus Glutinous, the smallest plants that decrease or expire would approach, ready for the twigs that are carried by the legs of the lost sheep. But not when winter arrived, still very green with the olive tree that is found again in the mountains of other glutinous that co-merge like lights that dazzle the lesser leagues of Alnus, losing itself in its habitat Alder, in mixed forests with green and black sheep, among Phrygana in God's soil with tame sheep and soil with poor nutrients, but full of green shadows.

Before these two parables, Prócoro says: “It must be maintained that each one speaks with its own language, and they never take long to amaze us, first of all, the color change from green to more green, if its shape, color, and corpulence as a species with the same shadow, regardless of the hue of the size of its species”

Sun stained eyes
Salt textured skin
Mouth breathes in the ocean air
Nose tastes the sea-gulls shrieks
He seeks
Ocean speaks
One gives
The other takes
And both make
A balanced happiness

Sea-gull's wings glide
Mirrored by the ocean's tides
Through the folds of wind
That causes ripples and constant change
Here, there, and everywhere

Salt liquid waves
Blue stained waters
Always moving
Always changing face
Detaching shells from the sand floor
And deforming the crusted and colorful reefs

Hello, are you new here?
I'll be your friend
Add me on Facebook!
Let's make it trend!
We will be friends till the very end
One day turns to one week
A month to a year
I don't get it yesterday you were just here
Emotionally detaching the world no doubt
Time to rethink what we live learn and love about
I see you want to do something today
I think to myself I'll send a message your way
I see that you read
What ever I said
Is social media a place to keep thoughts out of your head?
Like preaching to the choir, with a little less flare
How can we act like we don't even care
Why do we like and why do we tweet
In my eyes it would be pretty sweet
If we all sat down at a table somewhere
No technology or even a care
One day our society will be back in route
but until then
Time to rethink what we live learn and love about

It was something of a medical miracle;
First, an acid attack had destroyed one girls face.
Then another young woman died and
her parents donated her guise
so the first girl's could be replaced.

It was a delicate operation,
detaching the face of one dead.
It became  as pale as a Kabuki girls'
It looked like a death mask they said.

How strange then was the sensation
when the patient was UN-mummified
To see someone else in the mirror;
The face of a stranger through her eyes.

She was glad to once more appear human
though the donor was somewhat older  than she.
She would live out her days in the face of another-
but then, We are all wearing masks- aren't we?

Have you ever Know-ticed me?
I mean truly Know-ticed me,
Look through my eyes and into my soul to grasp who I sincerely was, am, and will be?
My internal splendor, no sugar
I don’t think you do…
You may think you know but it’s apparent that you have NO ******* IDEA!
Excuse the cliché but it served its purpose so let’s continue…
Do you Know-tice me?
Do you notice that my pain seems endless, as if the Emancipation Proclamation was just an urban legend and I’m experiencing the 5th century of my peoples enslavement?
Do you notice that my smile seems brokenly forced, only coming to life in the midst of dreams of being shipped home to you?
Do you notice that my heart is internally broken externally hidden only allowing the lurid utterances of, “I DON’T GIVE A *******!”?
Did you notice the trajectory of my tears detaching me from you?
Most importantly do you notice my undying love along with the uncompromising yearning I have for you?
All of which are mere memories like…
Your captivating voice, alluring me into riveting conversations that seems to be unforgettable something I can’t dismiss
Your slow touches
Your penetrating stares
Your unfathomable yet insinuating kisses
Your love or to put it quite simply your care because to love would be entirely too much for you at the time when time was nonexistent in my mind, no clock, I wanted to Know-tice you,
Nevertheless,
No I don’t think you Know-ticed!
If you did you would have noticed how I desire your affection and loath your constant dismissal of my essence
My existence seems to matter not but here I am… waiting and I can’t rest! Believe me you I’ve tried!
But then again maybe you do notice and although this may be the hardest to acknowledge on my behalf, I may have to come to terms that you DON’T ******* CARE!
Meaning… you would fail to notice that I’ve cut all emotional physical and mental ties with my heart only to join forces with my mind creating a relentless partnership against the thought of this empty middle’s sensitivity!
Or, that I can’t look at you without hurting!
Or, that I can’t lounge in your presence so silence becomes my friend, leaving me to become sworn enemies with verbal expression and these relationships coincidently only exists when you’re around!
And finally which holds even more significance, that I treasured you and still do as a lover but MORE as a friend!
But I don’t think you Know-tice!
I need you to know this is my own analysis and reaction to the entire state of our affair. So in response, I’ve come to the realization that you never noticed nor wanted to Know-tice me, everything just happened, it was ALL meaningless. So regardless of what I’ve felt, am feeling, or will feel! You become the commemoration, a constant but unconscious drive, of my callous feelings towards the possibility of ever wanting to Know-tice another, EVER again. I wanted, want, and will forever want to Know-tice you! But that doesn’t matter anymore because you’ll never notice sincerely my past, present or future, you treat them like me who you never did want to Know-tice!

Berne Aramaic Element

From Bethlehem the messages of the fields of Moab are felt, after the death of Eimelech and sons Mahlon and Quelion, Naomi remaining alone, Alone in the middle of the ears. Lepidoptera would begin to fly in all the lands of Judah after this distressing event. From the far reaches of the fields in the hot afternoons, Ruth could be seen in the fields and in the Hera united tightly with Naomi, where each one fence after fence will go the other in the name of Jehovah. Ruth deliberately gathers the grain and ears with the sheaves, between the reapers and the swollen sheaves, to provide sustenance for a whole past life of famine brought by Naomi's lamentations. Then Ruth after gleaning the grasses, thanked Boaz by looking into his eye fixedly, being able to see in him, how to lift the hay and run it to the world of the midwives to feed the newborn children, that way everyone will eat and be satisfied with the pottage until they are very satisfied.

From this land of ears of corn, will arrive the celebrations of Shavuot and of good grace for the stay of the Hexagonal Birthright in Gethsemane. The actors and landowners of these lands are making a great contribution to this phylogeny (with the consolidation of the Aramaic language in the garden).

Ruth appears saying: “Look well all the field, we are all in it, we have water and enough heat from the Shemash ignition, to grow the ears of wheat, and here is the refuge of Jehovah who gives us his protection, making us an equal part of his children to sustain us. I feel great pride in being deferential to Naomi; she will help me with the ears that will migrate to Gethsemane, with the transcendent visit of the Apostle Saint John. The bumblebees, bees and wasps will be satisfied; they will provide the nutrient food to those who will have to make the communications in the garden. "Blessed is the food that it gives you by harvesting, preserving and lavishing it"

A great axiom of archaeological heritages begins to be evidenced in this agriculture of transmission from the field to the expression of the cognitive and emotional areas that represent the oropharyngolaryngeal endocranial molds of sheep that become inert with crops and insects. Here the beloved rhetoric of insects will intervene with personal wings from the basic prop of their emotions, attracting signals from the fields and their images described by the flocks of insects that migrated from this Ruth book passage, to be able to retransmit them with the phonetic signals that go beyond the spike, which is rather a settlement or a Kibbutz, current to mold or settle archaic civilizations under an idiomatic link, which will address the phylogeny as cephalization of invertebrate animals with those of the benefits of support of adhesion between so much science and simply the invocation of Jehovah bringing us food languages with nuances of religious joy.


Phylogeny in Gethsemane: **** erectus crossed multiple evidences of pro-adaptive evolution beings, - Neanderthal / **** sapiens. The children of Israel wrote parables, epistles, verses, stories and books ..., their vocal and phonetic tract spoke of storms and environmental factors between heaven and earth, of the "Great noise outside of us, but little silence in us." The elementary thing is the larynx that only has to pronounce the image that denounces a concept, evokes the minimum sounds in different positions of its instrumentalized mega sound. Talking about how language varies according to history, and the civic-environmental environment instructing us in its threshold and descent, by detaching itself by the air effusions of language at the laryngeal level. It authoritatively collects the intervals of vocalization and relationship with agriculture in all its dimensions, descending through its internal walls, but rising through our parietal emotions outside of itself.


Of the little air that the world has left, to continue digesting temporarily, it has to let the air flow, which is possessed of mechanically inert particles, and unsanctified prophecies with corollaries of miracles.  Inherence that has made the super existence of those who still do not perish by the hand of a monarchical mandate. Thus the mute swallows air in asphyxiating and polluted halves, while others redistribute them for those who need to sit at the table to pick up the Bread and share it with others. "Here the echo of my Christian body resounds." That in Aramaic, it will signify much more than the language in its blood, grapheme and phonemes or stylistics, it is the shock of vibrating beyond the deep ground, reverberating with the grace of its divine enunciation”. Joshua, swallows spikes and olive leaves simultaneously arranging us in his arms, as his children, a sheep in his arms giving us milk-hydro milk from the sustenance of his creative verb.  "A strict fact of preserving the Aramaic and not misleading them by turning the pages in history." The Aramaic must be incorporated for the times that Joshua after more than two thousand years He is still here walking from one place to another, to tell us that He is still here, only suggestive of your walk plagiarizing with your larynx the sound of his expression DE shepherding. The sheep is a mammal ..., more mammal than man, since its statement always reflects in the bases of its skull, for the rest of its offspring as a biblical language, under all the rainbows of the cherubs, together with the children surrounding them in identical intention. **** habilis - **** Sanctus, in a process that has a Christ base and peripheral anatomical capacity for language in the wandering of the sternum to confuse them with each other, not altering the structural or functional complexity. From the potential of the Lepidoptera and winged insects, the phenotype will arise that will relate and relativist the mechanics of the Aramaic or the Aramaic method, of not misplacing the tongue because it is divine, as well as divine and laryngeal torque of those who have Aramaic blood and body, since his mechanized mystique is to devour the smallest words with the maximums in a whole range of sounds of the field speaking of: "Come to my field here the spikes and insects will speak more than the mechanical potential of your Voice."

They continue through the field Ruth forming phonemes in small verses, which go hand in hand with the words and those that refer to them; They are settlements of those who do not speak only suggest the presence of Jeheová without being present, but if after being with his stomach satisfied, parodying the activities of the field with his poetry made reality in a poetic-hydric whole and of the transgenerationality of the ancient peoples who no longer speak .., "They only express their wisdom with agro-phrases of wheat ears and olives in all their songs."

After Walking through narrow cobbled streets, now they are full of character with the Bedouin fumaroles, it is like walking through a heart hungry for alkaloids and lipids; to tour its synagogues evoking an outstanding barrage of pilgrimages without knowing how much more they will have to accompany our steps. Jerusalem, the walls that protect it, are witnesses to many battles that have been fought "in the name of God." As well as the soil that speaks for itself. Without a doubt, the Mount of Olives can be seen from Jerusalem beautifully, but not in the same way the other way around. The trees, whose fruits contribute positively to the economy of the region, in addition to symbolizing strength, security, prosperity, give hope in the journey of history with the same thing that never tires of the same. The orchard or garden of Gethsemane, a name that refers to the olive presses that are used to extract and process the oil. According to the Gospels, the Lord came to Gethsemane with his disciples to spend some time in prayer. But, as the environment in Jerusalem was one of insecurity and high tension, due to the celebration of the Jewish Passover festival in a context of political and military occupation of the Roman Empire, Jesus, very saddened, began to feel anguish ... asserting himself from the branches each once felt an olive near his fingers.

Etréstles says: "All the physical, emotional and spiritual forces of Jesus, here are smelled digging into the organic tissue, experiences that go beyond the intellect ..., it is the own and unequivocal admissibility of military feet walking on the ground after their meditation and recollection. From today, when the lights in the shadows will fill the limits of the garden with ecology, the giant camels will have to graze when the atmospheres have to make the tribune grow grass on his evangelizing poetics, to have it for tomorrow in the dawn meditation. All the pros and cons will have to be lost with the guests prayers that will inhabit the spaces that human reason does not have to intervene”.

Meditation with the Cherubim, the hexagonal primogeniture and insects penetrating the divisions of time that the cessation of a breath is obtained and being able to offer with the imagination the inclemency of having everything just beginning. That is prayer; it begins cyclically and then returns to the beginning, without leaving us comforted to finish what does not enclose the lapse circle of the meditative circumambulation.

Apostle Saint John said: More than pain and worry, after praying, he regained his strength and courage to face life, with its troubles and betrayals, with courage, dignity and hope. But more than this atavistic-anthropological complex, it is the salvific integrity that the verb saves the verb, through the vibrational prayer of the sound and perception of the words, and more with the Aramaic sound that is narrowing like the streets of Jerusalem, to distinguish biases of praising essence in the elements of noise, almost to the harmonic limit of a sound perfecting in a psalm or parable, which emerges from its oropharyngeal movement, leaving without expiation the abrupt change towards Hebrew thought and doctrine, together with the external sound emancipating the perfect cacophony of its vibratory inner howl, beyond the ritual that satisfies our needs by having a Father. He sanctifies and purifies because it is life and the dawn of new land that lies in the garden of prayer, every time I have to get up is to take the Bible and look as in a whole interlocution for me prostrating, and every time I get up and that I speak with my father I am attentive to close myself to his dimension.

The food that returns and feeds back, is the blood provided with justice to inhabit the body that synthesizes its protein oratory. The food that you go there from a breeze and merriment, puts on the tables all its clothes to sit around, it is the lament that smells like seed that evaporates from the hands, it is the heat of the holy field. The food that speaks of inviting so many to sit next to us is the one who least thought he was lacking in love, and that he should not be prepared, being the one who would eat everything until he was satisfied, leaving nothing in the compote or yeast, because of he will persist the food that satisfies only for the one who has the excessive spirit of the famine of whom it can be satisfied. Gethsemane is a flowery field where Lepidoptera, drunk with angels, fly, who only have one mission; “Give food to those who owe the desire to eat and nothing else, because the rest that suggests it is abstention, and this will be procrastination of the verb, which ceases to create and endow even if it wants it, since all the support of life can cease at risk bread and wine more than a toast and cheers! Rather, it is due to the devotional nurtured circle of the action of lavishing the Son-Father circle, granting the establishment of hunger-satiety to forge genetic and paternal seeds to recirculate them in the procreation chain.

Eurydice speaks: “My body flames like a spike towards my beloved Joshua, I come from the mask of a ship. I went to Jerusalem to look for flowers, which pour out aromatic herbs to bring and bless their words tied at their feet. I was late and I have lost my way, unable to find my way back. I only saw that from afar some lights in the northern area of the orchard lit up like cycling olives exploding in the air in fireflies that swarmed next to the Lepidoptera ..., they guided me here. But I repeat, when I saw the lights I go back as a child in my distant Greece, with my Orpheus when I managed to sleep Cerberus near Lake Styx. But I reiterate ..., beyond the lights I have been able to see how the insects are weaving and concocting his words, my beloved Joshua, which the auditors will be able to help the square and interpret for many more than thousands of years, taking us with their pre-recipients that we they allow you to feel your voice and hear it as far away as if it were closer than the olive branch that caresses your face. But I reiterate, I never thought that I would get lost, I am even arriving as if it were the figurehead of the prow of my ship, I always wanted to be near a world of light from the Olive Tree of Barnea genetics like this one that has led me to meet it "

Eurydice heads to the holy place, when she approaches the Fireflies and Lepidoptera come out to collect her, she allied themselves to the twisted shadows of the olive trees sharpening in clear harmony with the mirror archetypes of the dark foliage, reflecting the green shadows on the wild fruits by the oleaginous branches that went towards the branches embracing with those of the olive tree or thorny thousand-year-old olive tree, procreating the sacredness and ancient magistracy, for Eurydice it was clear that in her nation whoever wounded or cut an olive tree had the penalty of exile, she knew that she was in the House of the Olives, were in transit to their maturation in the autumn months of the boreal hemisphere, with their raps decorating the wisdom of have it with a favorite daphnomancy or divination of Joshua's message with the olive tree, with its white petals like the apostle's cassock, becoming lumpy in its texture when the olive begins to be born emitting crucifixion howls.

Just eleven days, before the ekadashi of the full moon, the phenomenon of the beat occurred, which happens after a year of abundant olive harvest and another in which the harvest is small, here the change in nuances is evident and corrugated textures of the countenance of the olive trees, without it being possible to think that this phenomenon will necessarily occur biennially or triennially. It was suspected and it was known that the developing fruits would go in this event through their hormones and the substances that intervene in their growth acting as inhibitors of the differentiation of the buds, so many of them would change when they were transformed into a flower to do so in wood, and from this process it was deduced that the turn occurs when grass and gospel are needed. The actions destined to promote greater harvests in the years that correspond to load, by taking care of the planting of meditation, and the abandonment of it in the years of discharge that contributes even more to accentuate the failure in doubts of faith. Some varieties of olive trees are truer than others, so it can be assumed that a genetic component generates this phenomenon. On the other hand, there will be the Christian cultivation technique, reducing the amount of time, such as watering or early harvesting of the olive, stop the tables that need to have it on their tablecloth. In such a way, that this phenomenon will help together with the genetic phylogeny, to reinsert lost words expired from antiquity in the emanation of God's wisdom, through the universe acting as a great Drupe or peach, which will assimilate to be the amygdala that will allow to assent the sent vibrations when they connect with the plagued ground walked and retracted of the Messiah, bringing to his earth the words in Aramaic of the sacred salvation of his prosapia, word and surveying work; which will allow them to transfer some appropriate property of their spirit to Patmos when they return.

Says King David: “like the olive grove of Barne of old stone, it will serve us for the harvest in the morning, with its fat percentage it will help us to feed the Shemash fat in the new Sun to wield the winds that will curb the nocturnal mist of the waning moon. All of us as kings have been baptized with oil at our coronations, also coins traded in Kar, to pay their benefits, with the allegory of Yotam, in the Book of Judges to choose the king of trees ..., the olive tree refusing because it had to produce oil, in the menorah are the two tiny olive branches, but large ones are lighting up the great temple of life. Now we will need it, since the eleven days come before we rescind the cessation of Aramaic as a lost language, rather to reimpose it in the entity of its gesture-visual channel- and spaces of what it hears or hears in repeated aramic oropharyngeal systems and voices when lamenting in Hebrew cheerfully passages of the Torah, with the same meaning and channeling source of pentateuch. To recast him in the Barne species to transcend genetics, together with his phylogeny towards Katapausis and the monastic cell of St. John on Patmos with Vernarth. "

Eurydice kept giving atomic waterspouts of momentum at her feet, to soon reach Gethsemane. When she arrived, she saw how the cherubs were pruning the Olives next to the Hexagonal Birthright. Everyone was preparing for the festival of the olive tree in the Garden. She was nearing the end of King David's itchy speech among the Roses of Sharon, but on the cobblestones where a Cherub was replying to her, so that nothing would be wasted if she was heard by her figurehead ears. He arrives and carries the aromatic trans essences and flowers to begin with intuitive adoration for each barefoot step he took, each petal and particle of his essence revere the base of the invested Messiah, reaching the perfect triangulation of the acetoso balsamic and the thorns with flowered arámicos of this revival of the path of the Barne olive grove species, to initiate a night in which to rest with its pinches that it deposited when brooding between the eyebrows of the spiritual garrison that was stationed in Gethsemane.

sometimes i watch
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
over and over again
on the days when missing you
hits me right in the face and makes me want
to call you, see you, hug you
to replenish the memories i have of you.
it makes me wonder if having you
erased from my mind would make this
whole thing easier, this new
chapter of my life.
the letting go, the detaching.
getting into the habit of walking by flowers
and not plucking their petals to see
if you still love me or not.
the realizing that it doesn't matter if you still
love me or not,
but being frustrated with the not knowing
anyway.
i don't want to erase you from my mind
out of hate or spite or resentment.
i want to erase you because the desire to go back
and do things over again is stronger
than the desire to accept things for how they turned out
and move on.
i don't know if it's missing you
or missing the person i was when i was with you
that is driving me crazy.
i think it's a little of both but mainly just the fact
that i want to tell you i'm sorry
without it seeming useless.
i feel you in my heart still and i guess i just want
you to know that.
but i also want to forget that because it hurts.
so i watch
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind
on repeat
to forget about it all,
if only for a little while.
why is everything always so intangible and bittersweet?

LSD
acid rain
slowly detaching
feel no pain
lights all blur
colours smear
cold wind blowing
whispers her song in my ear
nerves tense up
panic saunters in
if I dont keep sippin' this water
the bad tippin' will win
a bubble surrounds me
but I can still see clearly through
a new found understanding
of just what is really true
you placed a cymbal on a drum
to play for us your show
sparks fly off, with every hit
and time moves endlessly slow
I smoke, but I feel no satisfaction
my fingers swell like sausage links
I wonder if it's all for real, or
if it's just what my mind thinks
this is a musical trip today
we jam, and fry, and blaze
we laugh, because we can't understand, like
no sentences are made from the words we say
soon I long for my cocoon
to swaddle my self in warm
while your laces turn to snakes
unafraid, they mean no harm
the morning eventually comes
but feels like she's been here all along
the rising sunlight hurts my eyes
as the morning birds sing their songs

Maybe I'll get breakfast....

Here I am again
Content with loneliness
Writing riddles to keep track of time
Detaching myself from the reality of emotions
Pretending
Deep down I know love does not conquer all
I'm naive but I can keep a strait face
Too many arguments of nonsense and jealousy
So I keep everything at a distance
Such a wreck
In a tangled weave of misdirection
I panic at the thought of love
It's for children
It's for hope
It's for co dependancy
But not for me
I'm contenet with lonliness

i've been told i have been silent recently
but maybe they just don't hear me
am i whispering?
i feel like im screaming from the depths of my soul
so why can't they hear me?
if your eyes wander long enough
you'll see the pain
if you're listening
you'll hear the long-held breath i let out
when i finally get the release
of detaching
and realising
what helps
me

I guess I'm lonely.
I guess I'm a little arrogant.
I guess my collar turns up to the wind
whilst blocking out the adverts
in my periphery.
I guess I blinkered myself
to keep things moving forward,
detaching from people
to find an honest word,
beyond fear of detection,
beyond hurting others
whilst I shatter into pieces;
making the stage the only place
where I can find a voice
choosing solitude,
as if I had a choice-
you know I never learned
how to drive a car,
I have walked so many miles
but I have never got very far.
I guess I'm lazy.
I guess I'm a little broken.
I guess I'm just a skeleton
of all the words I've left unspoken.

I seized the heaviness of the Earth upon myself while you floated to the moon on your on accord.
I guess we were never to share the same fate or be mates.
Before we could even be acquaintance
You cut that umbilical cord at the earliest convenience.
Leaving me to handle the discord.

I was taught that twins are supposed to share everything not just a handful of DNA.
I thought we were raised the same but I guess you were absent that day.
I know I shouldn't impose on to your qualities you don't possess however I never really asked much from you - just a little help to ease this heavy load on my shoulders.

As we got older, you grew colder
Detaching yourself more and more
I attached myself more more
To fill in the vacuum
A job that should've been shared
Became my full time job

Not that it would matter as at the end of the day we both share the title "Loving Sons"

We are not twins.
We are not brothers.
We are not siblings.
We are, as you told me on Christmas Day,
Simply two people who grew up together in a single house for a long period of time and that's it.
I know that I do not know you.
I should accept this and not expect anything from you.

Soon - I will collapse under the weight of the earth and you'll find a new home on the moon.