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murari sinha Sep 2010
hereunder is served some poetry pouches full of love,
dear reader, stir them as you like,
if you wish you may crack them to pour into mouth,
you may smear them on your body
or you may sprinkle them on the ground
and then chant the name of god
with love and enjoyment

1.
the simplicity that rolls down
from the body of the sweet-meat
made by my mother

let it brings light
to our radish-red love-story

to hear or to notice
love
does not need
putting an ear on the wall
of the wall-street journal

the bottle could be filled
from the voice

when you go to fill the bottle
you would see that everywhere
the arrangement of picnic is ready

when i want to take part in that feast
my neighbours would drive me towards
the home  

although i’ve spent all my life
running behind the love

2.
who’s won the muddy-battle
was yesterday’s politics

my addiction is actually to cater
the pouch of love
to develop all vitamins
and all bathrooms

people say you don’t love
the claps of the rats

yet i’ll come down
from the branch of a guava-tree
as a wave-of-shopping-mall
to the lake of your love

now i’ll jump out
from this computer screen
to register a kiss
on your lips

don't miss to applaud
by clapping the hands


3.
the heart is half-sunk
in the window

to some extent
in the lipstick too

on the dinner-plate
there is the feelings of the lord

that means
i’ve to be burnt more
i do agree

i would become
the sculpture of khajuraho

this happenings may have been
the right search for love

on either-side of which  
a green is being worked out
by the nostalgic-cycle

whose colour-texture is very much harappa
which has too many geometric-memories

4.
an undertone is speaking
from within the solitude

now i’m in very much
distress

or i’m in love

i don’t know my love is what-for
may be that’s an arrangement only

so easily are those interactions
stitched with words

strenuous or effortless
in flight
initiated
with seclusion

but when in the sinking of the playfulness
i  write the games of the street-charmers


the birds again and again
pierce the archery

thus becoming ashes
through travelling

in time-gaps still
the audacity to compose poems
on you

5.
is it true love
or i do take it granted
that i’m in love

or i do love to think
that i’m loving

and there is
neither any welcome address
nor any opening song
in my love

my experience with heat of fire
and with burning pain
in the flames of water
is nothing less

6.
in course of burning
i look around

the chilly-plant  in the tob
planted in my won-hand
producing green-chillies

oh-** how sweet they are

it is no chilled-body
that has earned
my life or death

no remarkable mark
is endorsed
on the lotus-leaf

now easily some words
can be written
on you

i don’t know whether
those would be at all
some lines of a poem


7
someone falls in loves
someone makes love
love comes to some another

there is the far-off
whispering

at first she constructs me
then destroys rightly

i notice her
for the first time in six weeks  

the love
that writes
in the footnote of the tennis-ball
a desperate struggle for existence

within our skull
there is the love

or the midnight of the orion

the little squirrel asked now
are you in your seventies
or eighties

those houses with the coating of
the sky the air the light-and-shade
provide me with the presentation of
a wig and
a set of artificial teeth
8.
the love
that touches the hand
in drizzling

the love
that gets lost in the brandishing
grasses

would they want to inform
that the flowers don’t have any skyscraper

in the layers of the flesh and blood
of the detergents
as if  a whole human civilisation has been suffering
from suppressed pain

within it with the dry spell of
anger and cough
the time

had there been no feeding from the love
does the human civilisation stagger

9.
do you think those words
or it’s myself

whatever may you say now
i’ll travel within a great death
to die

rather after my demise i may tell
i’ve informed everyone …look

beneath the large evergreen flower tree
the game of light and shadow continues

beside those simple households
besides a high-head mobile-tower
what else would you like to be

is it a bath in the ganga-river is it a leaf
of the water-lily or it’s a king-cobra  
tell me

i would now make love
with that idea from you

10.
the  apparent golden *** that i thought
to be the underneath of a kadam-tree

in the dim light i can notice that
the stars in the sky are disappearing  

this session of poetry
is coming to an end

now where would i
go

to that little home

the home
a tiny word of 4 letters

within that home
the children are giggling
playing … and making funs

when i entered
with a tri-cycle in hand
for them

i have been perplexed
many old persons are waiting there
to shake hands with me

10.
almost most of my desires  
are very much hurt

to show it publicly
i wrap bandages
around all over my body

i keep on the stage-drama  

in our programme of reading poetry
tea is served twice
current has gone off for three times
for four times the mobiles ring

to pick up love  
some people think about returning back
from today’s dais to the ancient stage
of performing folk-drama

then they are also sympathetic
to my sufferings

12.
everyday
on my way to return home from the school
when my mom took hold of my hands

i could see in my body
the dancing of an unforgettable
aura

even now that mystical halo is walking
on the leaves of the trees
to fulfil my mornings

that wayfaring along the road
is ringing far and far-off

thus taking bath in every day’s  
dust smoke hue and cry

many such love
gradually gets aged

is it true
in the long run
i too
would be the ingredient
of a fairy-tale

just because i love
that paddy field

some time later
she will also become
human

13.
then she will make all of us  
join her walking

those inmost feeling
those memories meditations

the loneliness  and solitude…

sans the touch of the imagination of
a crater…
a creator…

this blunder…
this socially outcast white …

this type of uneven…
and irrelevance…

sume words
when peep in the mind
i surprise to see that
it’s ten to 2 at night

then in the balcony
my father is crying

he always notices some grave-yard men
in front of him

and sheds tears  

14.
after the dry leaves of the winter
fall in innumerable drops
the spring comes

the cover-face of spring means
a note-book of the rain-tree
letting float in the sun-water

and mr harry says that
this question of change
is a major pull

because all the unreal talks
you are delivering one by one

to keep pace with it
the ambulance comes at 10am
with a stale dead-body

in it’s shirt
is written the spelling of myself

i then sat on the grey volume
of the college-campus

in the front
a beggar from the war of waterloo
is passing by

over the dust of myself
with a faster pace
blowing is the thoughts of

ataraxia  
in the air… and air… and air…
    

15.

if your wishes colour silver
then do return back to the x-mass dancing
of the autumn

sound of whose far-off hoof-steps
digging so much soil of
story-weeds

i went into the nail-polish
with the proof of tea-cup
in my hand

there in the midst of lot of snow-flakes
and in the bed soft with the light of the candle
is now that honey-name more tarnished

now the atomic-howling
does not follow the rules of nature

so the rain-tree that seeks a-field-more-sky
with the hope to become king after the sun-rise

so that king is now waiting
in the grocer’s shop
at a stretch  for an hour

16.
does her well-wisher esse then thinks
to escape from the love-making whirl-wind

on the dry branches of the axis power
the new generation of the birds

rather stop a while there silently and listen
which song is hidden in the bronze-buddha

or in the school of the terracotta-horse

i’m now opening the coating
of the night-enamel to read this home

and behind the coo of dove
is smiling

the god of the penalty-kick

17.
sitting on an orange-coloured balcony
in an outsider lane
the green is writing poems
  
better than the face-powder

from this side all long the famine
i’m the priest of the
agro-based civilisation

still-then i think
why so much light of partiality
is on the body of the chrysanthemum

within the monsoon
in collusion with the  hair-band
now thousands of birds are born  

they can hear my
dry straws and twigs

whose hearing is the police
in so depth of the forest

don’t move the
dreadful resorts

one such photograph of the girls
who wakes up in the midnight

speechless…
unmindful …
destruction…

that is you now

i’m then in the spore
of the perfume-bounded body
of match-making

18.

who has lied in the box
made up of the temperature
of god

all on a sudden
there is a hue and cry
in the abdomen of the time
wearing a ***** pajama

actually that has been filtered up
from the voices of rock-songs

the roaming
of a fatigued traveller …

the lies
within their wishes
write my existence

and then run
to buy vegetables
from the station-market

so many lay-offs
come to the body of paper-weight

to listen to all those
is not improper

walking through the traffic-jam
gradually
this home becomes solely my home

one day the golden of
human

then it is i
who is you

and walking through the
monsoon

on either side of the field
it is all autumn

19.
when borrowing the religion of
the night-queen  
i fall in love

then is it real
that our mangos and jack-fruits  
can make the perfumed-soap
vigorously from the light of the
blood-line

i count the bells of the churches
ringing repeatedly

and piercing the image
of your prominent face

rounding through lots of old
the love becomes exhausted

and the love comes back
in the form of college-classes

there are you myself
and so many notes
of the body
RJ Wolf Oct 2015
Only Juliet drinks poison
Only Juliet likes to fall asleep
Last weekend,
Traded my bed for a coffin
Stuck both our hearts in the oven
We can fry together in heaven,
Pray to God your soul to keep,
I don’t want it following me.  
Cause,
  
    I haven’t been sleeping
I’m weak and defeated
A point of exhaustion
So lost that I can’t even think
I relied on you often
I’m starting to see
You come through the darkness
In the form of a banshee
Walk away would be progress
I’m just not really there yet
Sick of feeling like garbage
Chewed up gum; stuck under your feet
      Am I some type of rodent?
That you could step over?
A slab off the meek
Who breaks his back for your cheese?
Condemn me a burden.
This just isn’t worth it
We’re not picture perfect?
If you put down those matches
Then this fire would stop burning
But You’ll always be thirsty
I’ll always be hungry
You’re out their flirting
I’m home doing nothing.
      Unfulfilling the filth on the streets
The detergents’ not working
You’ll always be *****
No I won’t help you clean.
God’s gift to the earth
That thought is disturbing  
A hearts that’s discerning
The curse of the free.
Stay strong in my searching
The light is approaching
Keep moving forward
We’re permanently,
Finally over,
Juliet R.I.P.

Only Juliet drinks poison
Only Juliet likes to fall asleep
Dug her grave, had black emotions
Pray to God her soul to keep,
Sent her back to this earth,
Now I’m cursed,
I have Juliet’s ghost—following me.
Only in my dreams, why I never sleep
Finally Over, Juliet R.I.P.
Antonia Nov 2013
I tried those dish-washing detergents, the ones that have "super grease-removal"
but I felt like I was scrubbing off all the days we had worked, together, with metaphorical drills and wrenches, to fix what was irrevocably broken.
I used lotions, but freesias reminded me of the smell of your hair, and coconut oil left this residue that would feel like your hand was in mine.
I thought maybe covering them would be the solution, but my hands in gloves felt like the way your arms closed in around me and held me, suffocated me.
not exactly how I wanted it, but...
Pamela Loykowski Apr 2012
Scrub as I might, I cannot get clean
No matter how hard I rub with all my might
The detergents and cleansers cannot do it right
I am sure you know what I mean

No matter how hard I try I cannot clean my soul
My life is filled with filth I cannot rub out
Like the ***** chairs I scrubbed I didn't have the clout
To take my broken life and make it whole

All covered in a slime that won't wash away
My body inside and out will never be pure
Only through the grace of God can there be a cure
Through His love  He will show me the way

Clawing and rubbing till I am raw
No matter how  hard I try I cannot clean me off
Inside and our I am never clean enough
In wonder of it all I stand in Awe
Tulip Chowdhury May 2015
There's this thing you know
have tried million ways
to clean
hard detergents, dry wash
home and laundromat
and other ways
tried to erase
to delete
but know not
what will work
on this stain, a mark
its so deep
inside
somewhere in my heart.

Advice please,
do you know
how marks of betrayal
can fade? ©
Chapter XXIII
Invisible Eclectic Portal

Installed in the Eclectic and invisible portal of the Evangelist Saint John levitates in his sacred basaltic cavern Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio - USA). They would be in communion with the clan archery, who would resemble them as their proper ectoplasm; Thus, each one will form a unique part of the masonry that will dictate to redirect them in their messianic tasks from this stage of ascension.

Vernarth; being aware that he will have to enter the cave, after having ceased his work on hold for three months. Skinny from the myriads of wars and parapsychological regressions, he remains dazzled to dedicate himself to the beautiful places open towards the horizon ..., neighbor to cave painting and astronomy. In the colors of his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos. The saint appears only certain days looking at him from afar to encourage him in his progress, he is seen as a beautiful young man dressed in a robe of delicate pink tones, whose delicacy repeats psalms of the angel that normally accompany this Evangelist around him, with the colors Greens and blues of the landscape in the square of the sky that appears in redemption beyond the glory of the resurrection, rather super spiritual intelligence. In Skala's water, a shipwreck indicates the confusion of the men of its prophetic light, and on the ground a small pierced demon manages to divert the attention of Etréstles overwhelmed by digging it, so as not to stop the movements of the splendor of the effusions of storms in sacred sentence. This demon could be Tytillinus, who according to legends provoked bad thoughts in the clergy during religious services, and is the one feared by Saint John, who would not give them safe passage to enter and be able to entrust them with the task that they had predicted for him for the services in Katapausis.

Vernarth; he was with everyone working in the masonry of the Temple near the extramural wall of the Cavern of San Juan, he was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus and Alikanto imbued with the flutes that sounded, over exciting his ears with royal denotes, which he always had of a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. Everyone knowing that the threshold of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigma of the gloomy presence of Tytillinus, all rearranged themselves towards the poles of the tangible etherization of the psalms from 120 to 132, thus giving fire to the antipode of Divine Mercy, to repair the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating those that coincide with that of fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow abstaining from the northern confrontation with Tytillinus, center of the hooks of bewilderment and evil thoughts. Thus, the best way is to be swallowed by him and reside in his caustic stomach, making him believe that you will be consumed by him, and then fall close to himself when vomited, confusing him so that you yourself are one of his calves.

Vernarth manages to capture the upstart image near the grotto, seeing that of Tytillinus; where all attentive listened to the words textured by the saint.

Narrating Saint John: “He was also and will be a God of the Bressans in Italy, his image was disfigured and unearthed near Bresse. Le Rossi, who had it engraved on his Brassian memorials, says that the statue of this divinity was smashed in 840 by Rampat, Bishop of Bresse, and that it only had the name of the god in whom it was consecrated. This statue was made of iron, with the head crowned with laurel, resting the right cake on the skull of a dead man, and holding in his left hand an iron pike, finished at the top by an open hand, in which we see between track and thumb the egg that a snake entwined in his hand that got to bite: these are symbols as dark as they are mysterious. Is he resting on a skull and on a gloomy laurel potion, marking as certain defeated conjectures of Father Montfaucon, that Tillynus triumphed over death? But who will be the antiquarian or mythologist brave enough to explain the meaning of the serpent that throws itself into the egg that holds the hand that is on top of the pike? Let's admit that mainly among the topical gods they were hardly known, except in some particular cities that had chosen them for their patrons, there are always inexplicable symbols.

Saint John continues, in the face of the unmerited event, I will protect you here in my shed so that everyone is released first before entering my sanctuary, where everything is obsessed with visions after those of the Roses of the ultimatum, full of aspirations rather than subjugating in the aroma of purity and righteousness. Diverting the lurking Calluses and Dans (desquamation epidermis) of the eyelids, itchy in which its internal part is ulcerated, with cracks and callous hardness. Tyllinus the symptomatic form of the demon Tytillinus begins at the edge of the eyelids, although this edge then ulcerates; but generally it begins with a heat and itching that increases day by day, until they become  uneven and rough, and eventually end up causing stiffness, cracks, hardness and small ulcers. It is then because this demon not personified declares latent and obstinate disease of very difficult to cure. Not allowing before the scant light of the cavern, not being able to erase what is clarified in a look of solemn meditation and sacred silence. In its healing, general remedies are required, a soft and refreshing diet, bloodshed, if there is a large amount, as well as purging, when the disease is habitual. Regarding topical remedies, we will first use those that moisten, soften and moderate the acrimony of humor contained in the eyelids; then we come to those who are detergents and dry the ulcers, essentially, seeing him hesitate with our deep meditations digging his dark fermented soul.

Vernarth, insinuating to continue with his labors, sees with optimism to escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. Tremors appear to them by all the edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with airs of end of the world. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, interfering the fiery bellow of the playful Tytillinus, banishing the movement of his tail to outlaw the serpent egg, avoiding creating a pseudo monarchy on them prostrating them, as almost being being beheaded repentant.

They all open their arms and surrender to this pseudo demon, being swallowed entirely, to later reside in the intestines of this pseudo monster. Subsequently everything happens as predicted by the hermit, who would be expelled from his ruminant stomach, believing to be creatures of their own nature, confused by how their children from beyond for their intro demonizations. Thus it would have existed in mythologies to tempt and dismiss the work of any unit, essentially of San Juan. It will inhabit them from the hierarchy of Evil, as it appears in grimoires and occult texts, each demon has a precise name and function. Transfigured will be the epochs in dowries for the naive people, carrying them out for rituals to protect themselves from them, since it was believed at that time that every individual who was harassed by them, would continue to stalk them waiting for a moment of weakness to attack .
Saint John is and will be an egregious demonologist, collecting thick volumes with the names and attributions of each of the demons of the infernal hierarchy. This in perfect symmetry with that of Aion, interconnecting sublime times where the concept is lost on the human temporal scale and the genotype of Satanism or satagenesis, in austere precision ranging from Satan, head of all demons, to Ukobach, in charge of maintaining Long live the infernal flames. So that freedom of slavery finally reigns before one's own demonized moral individuality. The price of such an invocation is always the soul of the individual, who will end up going to hell, the demons invoked themselves and they will invoke themselves as a light to walk on their own darkness, in the past, present and future through Special enchantments found here on the Invisible Eclectic Portal.

Under edit / continue
Invisible Eclectical Portal
shireliiy Nov 2015
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Jay Nov 2018
twice
i washed my black sweater

still  
when i put it on  
it smelled like you

i have been through
hundred times worse

bleed my heart out
on a wet concrete floor
picked every daisy
ruthlessly
rootlessly

just recently
parted
from a lifetime

but you
and your scent
in under my skin

i think somehow
you represent
time
and how it changes
everything

what have i lost
what have i gained

i am older now

pull my sweater off
chuck it back into the washer
drown it with laundry detergents
and perfume

when i put it back on
it better not smell of
broken dreams
and anxiety
Hussein Dekmak Feb 2021
You are born with a pure heart, white like snow. Keep it clean with the eternal detergents of kindness and humanity.

Hussein Dekmak
Edited 2
JB Claywell Mar 2021
The air was painted.

Inside the chain link fences
were clouds;
brushstrokes
that could’ve been
proffered by
Van Gogh
or
*******
as they dissipated
into the early, cold
morning air,
pausing only for a
few moments to allow
some of the particulates
to freeze;
the hydrogen, the oxygen,
the lye,
&
detergents that
make up whatever
is used in
a prison laundry.

The effluvium is rich,
the odor of a passable
cleanliness in what is largely
a rather fetid domain.

The scent of bleach,
harsh, chlorinated,
removal of that which
stains.

Yet,
something stays,
an acrid, sour smell;
an unpleasantness
which seems to have chosen
to remain
unwashed.

It is concluded,
that this emanation,
is the opposite of
emancipation,
it is a olfactive reminder
that
Building # 7
serves up
freshly washed sorrows,
rages, or regrets
as well as
whiter whites,
releasing
stains from grays
more often than the wearers
of
these wardrobes are released
themselves.


With this in mind,
swirling, shifting,
moving, motivating
marching upward,
toward
Building # 1,

It is breathed in,
and out, and in
again,

renewal,
like clean laundry
washed in industrial
soaps, rinsed in disinfectants,
delousers, deodorants
unknowable.

Starting over.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Overmorrow,
And,
Everafter.

Amen.

*
-J­BClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Ryan O'Leary Sep 2022
Karmageddon


Even the innocent will rejoice.

Not because of dead fish belly

up In the river lay-by where they

almost learned to swim between

excrement releases from the

overflowing septic tanks due to

detergents prohibiting bacteria

disintegrating untreated faeces.


Not because their linen sheets

got flecked with particles of red

dust which was supposedly last

time attributed to a desert storm

in the Sahara transported by the

Sirocco then relayed to La Mistral

and eventually becoming alias before

making a landfall on their island coast.


Not because of a cumulus congestus

which replaced nimbus casting a dark

shadow on their glasshouses where

unripened tomatoes would have to

be fried green without the wild Paris

mushrooms which are impossible to

distinguish from blackberries growing

in hedgerows by the roadsides.


The innocent will rejoice because

despite they being the common

denominator to a pyrrhic solution

the final equation will end with a

mere = an aspiration of majorities

which had gone unheeded by all

of those who had been manipulating

figures on the hypothenuse square to

deceive those of their lesser neighbours.
On the bus, on the way back, he thought about his house and Dn's. Adolfo, being able to see one on the rise and the other on the decline, in the hands of a survivor. Ludwig ...: What a pity ..., I'm going to torture or I'm going to glory. I only have their memories, some of their belongings to talk with, and I myself have chosen not to be scared by what would make me forget all circulating waver and be a great achiever. This profession that alternates me with people and does not isolate me, complicates my conversion. It was not long ago in the unfortunate death of that trampled animal, it reminded me of other severed deaths, and without forgiveness. Or those vainly confessed by the one who in his concept of sin, no matter how great his nature, repentance that always languid at leisure, makes his act sinful. Definitely, there are several protectors of the conscious sinner, who in doing so re-crucifies that Lord. The bad must reach out to the good, even if betrayal lurks with his infidelity.

In the afternoon when he was hesitant to sneak out of his musings, some custom remained to ease him, more well-ventilated oxygen in his head, centrifuging the Free Radicals. And the dark stain that blinds the flow that dominates him, that makes him feel without language to describe the crushing that often ends him. For more than half an hour he was like this until he wanted to move his legs and was able to move them, but where ...?, Maybe very far, towards a place where he has to jump savoring the stained airs spread around. Anyway, everything could be there, but when he became disenchanted, he saw parts that indicated that he would arrive very soon to the field that in his abandonment was decolonize some bird legs and the fallen fruits ran on arid soil, manifesting a grandiloquent regret. Upon arrival, he looked at the surface and thought he had never been born, he walked out to the proximity of what had never been stained before, this immense Garden similar to the grasslands of South Africa, with its flowery steppes and its precocious warnings to reserve a continent for the future. Hunger, thirst, and sleep were withdrawn, only his eyelids moved. Up and down a window was hit by a wind that tried to unlock it. In addition, the walls were vigorously sheltered by tree elephants. I see myself laughing and I remember myself, maybe some wind is going to sway my hair, or I am going to touch the search for the not found.

Ludwig is overwhelmed, like an ahistorical identity, foreseeing any moment that spills over into his time and goes with all the silences in the world. His rigid complexion bends his sickly body at the incapacity. Everything smelled of subtlety and purity, the spirited detergents linked the beginning and the end in communion. The inevitable image of Antoinette with the encrusted pigment of her forms will hang from the top of love, towards the wakefulness of unspeakable dreams. He talked and laughed with her, he never ran out of her, not even when he got into any discussion because there was none of her and there will be none of her. If there is something necessary is to retain the beauty in remembering it ...? In that same instant, he left the memory of her and went to find her. He says that it must be kept for posterity, everything neatly in the neat white sheets that my superior members will caress. He walked to the outskirts of the Prehistoric Park, which at more than one moment appeared in his mind the present shadow of someone he loved, with his harmonious and veiled countenance. Long days of confinement, if he needed something in the kitchen, he ran out to buy what his mother in a hurry ordered him. And to this day he does, but now he is going to buy him shoots from the highest mountains, to reappear in him the height of his loving son.

Before the house of Antonieta, he is and struck with some nervousness. Very deeply she breathed herself, and when she rubbed the palms of her hands very wet, she more she became restless. Time passed and no one opened Ludwig insisted, but it was useless, no one opened. Then he knocked on the next house, opening a dark lord for him. The one with the cigar on his lips, almost swallowing it, told him that they had moved from the neighborhood. Actually, his mother suffered a lot from her cough. Ludwig, thanks him and says goodbye, before leaving he looked at the house and continued to his destination.

At no time did he expect a voice to appear, like the one he saw approaching at high speed, such as a racing car. As he resumed his march he turned his foot violently, emitting a noise similar to a nuance of Antoinette's voice. He looked around her, not seeing anyone like her. It was getting late, fatigue was taking him home. As he passed through the Park, he entered to see that famous Geysers Fountain. Clear reasons had such as being old-fashioned and a bit abandoned because she gave him the sense of friendship and love, and he did not want to lose once again a reason to live. He said to himself ...: That something positive is that here everything is in optimal conditions, just as Antonieta should be. And just the voice attacks ...: "What you can think, tell it, since what you have read was all recorded here ..."

Ludwig ...: So fast, you're here again ...!
The voice ...: Yes because you are more alone than before. I fear that your soul will be mute, and I will be seriously threatened!
Ludwig ...: This passage of life and the world is a powerful vice, wherever you go to take it; he will do with you what he wants.
The voice ...: Yes, ... Yes ... but you should not fear, you are big and strong. Don't let it scare us more.
Ludwig ...: Enough is enough, I only know that their quantities are excessive. I can no longer receive vices involved so that they finish us off.
The voice ...: You're dead, you've been like this for a long time. For this reason, you will not develop the vicious virals of the apocalyptic subsist, you will only digest food without flavor, and what is liquid will appear solid. Here's something about the feeling that you can't explain. A moment ago I feared the threat, now a difference is emerging.
Ludwig ...: What ...!, How to explain the dead? He ran out of the park to his house. When he relived that situation, he seemed greater than usual, he feared a greater fear, that is why he ran in terror. He came in saying ...: Dad ..., Mom ... Where are they ...?

When he reacts, he realizes his madness, it is that the black curtains plowed and frozen as if making him pay a debt. As usual, he lay down on his humus bed. Again the sunny awakening washed away the dirt. There was mercy, there was love on the part of his faithful and irreplaceable vegetable valley, of immeasurable goodness
Weirdly Emigrate Chapter VIII
i l l i Sep 2020
You are here;
through the closet emptied out
the crinkled shirts at the back of the wood
the hangers stomped on the floor
the water that gushes along with the bubbles
of scented detergents
the faint creak of the door
waiting for familiar footsteps to enter

You are here, yet blurred in distant passing.
“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
yep
Developing a personal shift in.
my personal prison
And this perfect existence
With worthless decisions..
Externally driven
Urges and girly decisions.
Worthy intentions
To leave  earthly possessions.
As long as my birth.
Is the learning curve in this lesson...
I'll keep serving up
Words. Like I ****** a sentence.
And cut my nerves
At the endings.
My surgeon mixes gas.
Straps on my mask
I go out.
Like a stain with certain
detergents....
Wake up a brand new person
Yeah right
Its never arriving...
I'm not worth it....
I have no courage...
And there's word
I might not survive it.....
A rent is what it is: a tear, a schism. Who can strike hotter than lightning? Who can stir faster than an electric mixer? Who can displace water without getting wet? Shadows are cast upon walls & trees, yet nobody's more cohesive in their appointed *******. A hole forms above my eye, a portal of enlightenment or a boil. A dangerous rupture threatens bending over to retrieve car keys --- there will be no ice cream cones for anybody now.
   “Would a dead photo of my cat be any
help? I have 6 angles: repose, face up.”
   A cat dead is no use to the live-cat community. They are
live wires: no ball of yarn's sacred. It's Newton's Laws of
Heavenly Bodies, the **** Test {for scarlet fever susceptibility}
& scads of things that keep dead cats thusly.
  Into the salt-sea I bury the remains in large sprinkle: sandy bottom, sand-paper & silica, foam & detergents, the oil what cuts the surface --- the depths of volcanic breaks with sherds of crusty parts. Chicken combs choke the weary, froggy warts & cloven hooves clog craws. John Rockefeller, junior, sleeps with girls. My mind's fettered, culling accusations, massing a cleric's defense.

— The End —