"dexterous" poems
Saturated in steely blue clutches, sweating from the 75 degree Georgia night
strung up and washed out with a serpent woman that keeps bringing on the blight
Singing you a song of bliss and blinders.
A big brick red boot on your neck and a green collar that reads The Gardens *****
The Garden takes the taxes tightens up the lead and never relaxes
Hit ya where ya like, the pain is disguised, leather tastes like candy, The Gardens got ya hypnotized.
Your late night camping sight attracts the moon light parasite, that acolyte of appetite, Tonight your the Gardens Delight
You wanna run but she's got those hooks between your shoulder blades feeling like an inexorable **** of silk, smoke and skin.
She gives you every thing you need,
Fountain heads of intemperance and black out nights
Whole streets smelling like grease and charcoal charbroils
Men and women of dexterous lechery, feverous severance, and generous deference
Crystals for your cranium, high altitude dives and the lowest lows.
A cacophony of any entertainment you might want or need, just as long as its seedy.
The Garden keeps blinders on your head to make sure you can't see anything she doesn't want you to.
Try to remove em and the punishment is usually severe.
She might give you the greatest loves you've ever known and turn em to photographs, blot em with LSD and trip you out on memories.
And when you come back to what you think reality is she'll take those photographs and burn em up right in your face and leave you asking if any of it really happened while feeling like it was the realest thing that ever has.
She'll break you and build you up, build you up and break you worse. A cycle of bad things feeling real good.
The Garden will do everything in her power to keep you right here.
But if you can get all those straps and tight leather off, all those hooks and chains.. If you can escape her steely blue clutches,,
You'll finally see how wrong you've been done, and your still gonna want her back in some strange way..
but you might start to heal....
But know this.
No matter where you might run off to,
You'll still be hearing The Garden City call.
That siren song of bliss and blinders.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
Ajoke, the gods has cursed me to
Praise thy beauty
Like a sugar-cane planted at a river-bank
Your beauty is magically comely
Thy phat smile is an epiphany
I wonder the mystery of the water that
Dwell in the Coconut of thy beauty
Let me adore your well-made eyeballs
They are like traps laid in the forest for
Antelopes
Something the mirror won't tell you about
Your dimples is that they give death to death
The village priests said your
smile can be use to appese the gods
Not to invoke their wrath
Something about your dexterous waist
They are like prison guards when dancing
Guilding my hearts.
Ajoke your beauty is an epiphany.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 4:20 PM UTC
There is meaning within a meaning
Heart always wants to decipher
After unwrapping the myriad layers
With dexterous thinking and imagination
Every meaning is unraveled with time
It’s a labyrinth through which life goes
For the true meaning is hidden always
One who wants to seek passionately
Will trespass all the arduous challenges
Lay hands on the hidden key
To open the cherished door of the heart
True meanings are intricate ciphers
Only the brave heart can decipher them all
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
അ** Getting closer, to the just bloomed flower
that bewitched him in an instant,
the honey bee gets intoxicated
by the web of love,
the sweet flower threw around,
it felt more like a gentle caress
to which his heart jumped!
He starts to do an ecstatic dance,
never thought he could,
till this sweet moment arrived,
merely touching her soft petals
he flies high as if to proclaim his pleasure
buzzing a new tune he composed
for this special moment,
he circles the flower
as if to adore her beauty
form all possible angles
making the moments of love
so special for them both..
ആ** A butterfly enchanted by the flower,next
has a dance of love so different,
he would flit around and hover above
adore her beauty in a more relaxed pace,
he appreciates her silence to his soft declarations,
his love songs have no words, on air written
by the sprightly moves of his colorful wings,
he knows she loves it and his dance tells it all.
Like a kite on the waves of wind, he bobs on air
gently descending,looking at her eyes.
ഇ** The tailor bird who never misses
mother nature's children all,big and small,
in their myriad ways of loving and living
watches what's going on,
without batting an eye lid,
she has a doubt
"Who among these
lovers are more intense?"
she thinks aloud.**
ഈ** The sonorous singer,
Bulbul watching it all
from the hanging branch
of a Champak, flowered in
riotous profusion answers:
ഉ "Both are poets, no doubt,
of distinction too,
each of their deeds
spontaneous demonstrates,
with hearts full of love
they wave poetry around us
in ways ingenious
paired with flowers.
why compare them?
Mother nature's brush
dexterous paints each one of us
with such loving care and kindness
to infuse celebratory spirit,to the world,
never forget that,learn from the bees and butterflies."*
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
an octagon tent
wide enough that chucking rollies
to the sand made impossible
sprawled layers
you turned to quote Dali
told me how pale blue washed with lucy
shimmered skyline into dimension
acryllic-smeared sass drips canvas
into murmurs circling dilation
dimethyltryptamine stains
painting dreams on my eyelids
with flowerbrushes and silk,
mushroom dust gathers in discarded hues
on your pallet, where the colors of your irises
dry into a nebula of night-blooming jasmine
the scent of how you move when you sleep
and sleeping is never so sweet
as dancing through lucidity
with you as my sheets.
and i've traced your thumbprint so often
i'm sure if it were stretched around a marble
like buffalo skin on spirit-caller drums,
a globe would be seen
in which Greenland is finally proportionate--
the map on my wall always bothers you,
but I do too, and everyone does,
urging me under the geography
etched into the sea of your surface
by the crucible of your purpose
and working me into
empty behind your right
below the 22
between i'ching
and the forty two names of god
clasping your fore in silver
copper wound around my finger
hamstrings woven like wire
kambaba jasper, two to share
you hang Tibetan tektites
to elevate space
meteorite fragments
lodged in your helix,
stardust blood,
mandala sand from your mother,
and our tendons wrappe
by dexterous carpals
make such a pretty pendant
of my heart,
for synesthesia mistakes not
and my addiction to the pen has eased
for you breathe murals
and syllables never could
match brushtrokes of carbon dioxide.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
IF MEN WERE GOD
Man are dexterous in cunning ways,
Aiming in jeopardizing just like the serpent
Full with autocracy
And fear not he God.
Man the trickish being ever created.
If men were to be God
The fish would stink, creatures will seek
And many will cease.
If men were to be God
the moon will turn day and the day will turn night
Injustice will become right.
And crises will become plight.
If men were to be God.
The iota of truth dismissed
And the heart of men will be so deep.
For our breath will be sold for
If men were to be God,
Door will be locked for the bold ones
For stagnancy will go on
Were truth struggles and lies goes on.
If men were to be God.
justice will be seek for
injustice will be of favour,
And The poor will labour from.
If men were to be God
War will be regarded as play
rain will be regarded as cain
And the stars shall be denied of the sky.
If men were to be God
Goodness will be be paid with wickedness
Earth will be desolate,tyranny will be seen as the best form of government.
Where a man decide the hope of all without confirmemt.
INKED BY
AKINOLA JOSEPH &OBAWE STEPHEN.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 9:07 AM UTC
At the old market place, there is a locksmith
The slipshod ancient road leads to his shop
In the business of repairing locks and making keys
For almost half a century, a dedicated soul
Right from a tender age he picked up the skills
Accompanying his father, to learn the tricks of the trade
Slowly he became adept at repairing the locks
Like a wizard, replicating the keys, for those have lost it
His name spread quite afar, for people sought his help
In times of trouble, as they were locked out of homes and shops
He knew the heart of each and every lock
Reviving at the touch of his dexterous hands
As if he used to command the locks to open at his will
Like a ring master at the circus
Each and every key combination were memorized by him
Recalling them like a mathematical genius
With the permutation and combinations, he found the magic numbers
He wielded the keys like the archer’s precision
Always hitting the bulls-eye
He knew each and every house in the town
For, over the years, everyone had come to him for help
He was the only one who knew the key to open any lock
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
HR Mgr: So, Amber, you're applying for the file clerk position?
App: "Yea."(Keeps brushing her hair off of her right eyebrow)
HR: "You didn't fill in the space for your last name. Does Amber
have a last name?"
App: "Yea."(giggle). "Dexterous."
HR: "Amber Dexterous, interesting." and you say your former job
was "entertainment dancing."
App: "Yea."(Brush-brush!)
HR: "Poetry in motion, I'm sure." "Amber, are you a stripper?"
App: "I'm not a "Strip-AH! I'm a Dan-SAH!"
HR: "Okay, okay! So, do you use poles in your dance routines?"
App: "Nooooo, I don't do thaaa't. But, I do like the Canadians!"
copyright: richard riddle February 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
I am a musical note in a guitar
Waiting for the touch of dexterous hands
I am a chrysalis under a paling leaf
Waiting to be turned into a butterfly
I am raw ore in the far depths of the mine
Waiting to be extracted and purified
I am a smoldering piece of coal in the hearth
Waiting to be blown into a flame
I am a rough stone under the Earth’s crust
Waiting to be hewn into a diamond
I am an antique piece long buried in the soil
Waiting excavation to become a treasured exhibit
I am a piece of canvas fixed on the easel
Waiting for the touch of a master artist
How I long to transcend my rawness
Into something better and refined
But can I do anything wholly myself
Never! Everything depends on others will too
I discern I am only a flickering shadow
That has existence only if there is light!
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
HR Mgr: So, Amber, you're applying for the file clerk position?
App: "Yea."(Keeps brushing her hair off of her right eyebrow)
HR: "You didn't fill in the space for your last name. Does Amber
have a last name?"
App: "Yea."(giggle). "Dexterous."
HR: "Amber Dexterous, interesting." and you say your former job
was "entertainment dancing."
App: "Yea."(Brush-brush!)
HR: "Poetry in motion, I'm sure." "Amber, are you a stripper?"
App: "I'm not a "Strip-AH! I'm a Dan-SAH!"
HR: "Okay, okay! So, do you use poles in your dance routines?"
App: "Nooooo, but, I do like the Canadians!"
copyright: richard riddle February 14, 2015
I should apologize for the "wordplay", but I won't! This piece was written for entertainment purposes only, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
Transcendentally existential in-extremis extremity nuance. Vicinity victual vigilante villain. Propinquity habitation harbinger harangued. Clairaudience clairvoyance agilely dexterous acuity, tactile coordination. Feral phrenic frenzied **** Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma. 29th Psalm some holy spirit, the angel was a vision of resplendent beauty as it hovered in mid air above the knoll. Apex axis crux and citadel pinnacle's peak. And yet I would distance traveled time spent like to mitigate this of in to you. What then is the essence of metaphysical mystique. I say lets ethereally sublime be mesmerically enrapturing. Ecstatically euphoric and climactically ******** Let your vicarious recalcitrance revel in the prolific profuseness of my profundity as we lavish in our wanton abandon. Though paw flaw laws are to claws aimed craw, horsefeathers are more proficient and surreal on the salaciously seductive.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
Oh something just now must be happening there!
That suddenly and quiveringly here,
Amid the city's noises, I must think
Of mangoes leaning o'er the river's brink,
And dexterous Davie climbing high above,
The gold fruits ebon-speckled to remove,
And toss them quickly in the tangled mass
Of wis-wis twisted round the guinea grass;
And Cyril coming through the bramble-track
A prize bunch of bananas on his back;
And Georgie--none could ever dive like him--
Throwing his scanty clothes off for a swim;
And schoolboys, from Bridge-tunnel going home,
Watching the waters downward dash and foam.
This is no daytime dream, there's something in it,
Oh something's happening there this very minute!
1.5k
.
Let me invite the drums,
The Gangan and omele
Let me further surmoun the sticks
All to be arranged in the respect
Of their ages and sizes
Then let Ayankola's hands beat out the rhythms
.
I plead to mama sodiq's Palm-wine
To render us her sweetness.
The gracious Omidans of this village I must behold!
The grace of steps, dexterous twists,
The exhilarating chants and colourful apparel,
Tinted with beaded waists
.
As the ascenstors come out to watch this
Colourful moment of ours
Let the gods drink to this hour
This moment is true
The storm has recided!
Here comes the calm as
The future foretolds
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
In the light of your immaculate form I make the following declaration:
I will be your jealous cellist-
(I.)
And I will play you like a stringed instrument - then
When you make delighted whisperings
And finesse the fine music of the feminine, magnificent
Your heathen distemper
Distributed,
woman-like, goddess-like
Classic cello-shape
Draped in lilting silk
Then
I will fiddle and pluck
Cast broad swathes near and about your single tingling place
Your attuned instrument
And it's spruce wooded
frontispiece.
(II.)
You faux arabesque
(for faux is our shared domain)-
Your hands moving gracefully - you pause -
Feigning flight
Feigning fancy
Considering
My rising fire
Weighty desire
Shadows mingle with glimpses of
My thickness and length-
Veined skin and steel,
White - waiting, wanting -
And there's an answer.
(III.)
You are girl - such a girl
I am boy, only boy
My persistent mans eye view
Part pleased with the flashes of you -
Now in new
Near **** rhythm
This gilded exuberance,
Radiant
Hypnotic
Sets sparks flying
Tickling toward sky and stars
I would have you
My dexterous digits upon your supple, warm-
Fragrant fresh flesh fret board
I would squeeze you where
Your mystery resides and
Elsewhere besides.
(IV.)
Roughly - at first - needy
Determined -
I would play upon
Your duet of juice creators
Invoke the
Holiness of your
Secret sacred spaces
Doublet, Triplet, Quintet
Play on! play on!
I would have you
With my plugging piece
There! There!
Your open legs
Secretly seeking my carnival of thrusting
Inside your warm girls pearl
Antidote for collective loneliness.
(V. )
I would hold you, your sides -
Firm in my greed
Our lustful minuet in 3/4 time
Play on, play on - I
Kiss your neck,
nibble your *******
It's you, it's you
You arch yourself toward me
Warmly
Affectionate,
We hold hands, fingers between,
And dance.
(VI.)
This some time Summertime
Bright flame
We reach - how we reach-
Our mouths, our tongues -
The very words we speak- yearning for -
longing for -
Connection
Each to the other, and
Our connection to God
"Rightful sin -
Come to us again
And again - and again
Satisfy our minds!"
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
Don't be foolish.
Pledge allegiance with the moon and stars.
With the creatures of the night.
With the shadows that hide dexterous spies.
In the end it us who win.
Besides...we have ...cookies.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 3:30 PM UTC
Your dexterous brain hypnotizes me.
The gassed venom erupts from your thoughts and strikes mine
leaving me with helplessness and a dim light.
With temptation in mind
but never in your heart,
I am constricted with the fake,
shedskin love you've given me.
And you squeeze tighter and tighter
until I finally give up hope.
You devour me whole.
Then slither to your next meal.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
You see this secret side of me
Something I was never meant to be
With you I tried so hard to save this sacred place
But never getting there is my disgrace
Sometimes I feel like you’re watching me move
In and out but always and never to soothe
I wish I were lazy enough to do what I want
But alas I can never catch the ‘punt’
Syllabus to dexterous minus the outstanding wit
Equals my life with you and why I have this need to quit
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 2:01 AM UTC
An eccentric museum accepting visitors even at midnight
Diverse artworks littered the walls
The artworks were the walls
And there you were, a mediocre painting
Barely beautiful, but intensely intriguing
Such an ordinary painting as you have caught my attention
Contained in a frame created out of flimsy, cheap wood
With curves and lines not deemed comely by standards
But to me, in a way, appealing
You bear revolting edges which deplores me
But pleasant colors fill some of your space
Far from magnificent, greatly lacking to be a masterpiece
These hands of mine tremble with want to refine you
I've got paintbrushes for fingers, tubes of visions for colors
Dexterous are my hands as my mind is creative
Let my touches sketch your path to grandeur
But you are your own art, you are your own
The words reverberate within my skull
I chain my own hands down and battle with the urge
If I cannot appreciate you, I shan't recreate you
One last stare, before I look away
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
We keep on searching
Inventing and re-inventing
Dexterous minds
Looking for solutions
Problems seeded deeper
Takes root firmly
As we hone our skills
To mitigate our fate
We create a bid divide
Chasm wide and unfathomable
Disarrayed paths
Somnambulists take the lead
Unknown hurdles
Every time they falter
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
Addiction has its hooks catching
at my pre-frontal cortex.
Fishing wires are attached to the hooks.
I’m snagged like a fish.
Dexterous fisherman hands reel me in closer
to the mahogany door of my bedside cabinet
where I stow Liquor Outlet *****
I’m choking on each hollow breath
that whistles down my chimney throat.
My thoughts need to be bubble-wrapped
and stored in vintage chests at the foot of the bed.
Maybe I’m too eager to forget.
Maybe I’m too weak to resist.
All I want is some peace of mind
from the phantoms haunting my head.
I unscrew the bottle to drown them out
until spirits flood my bloodstream.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
Fit to be tied to a ligand gated receptor,
mind you,
right there, in the area below our own aptness
to think and do at once, thus we think without
knowing we are
thinking
things,
new and old, linked by local nodes arranging ions,
in channels previously lacking bridged interchanges.
Instant one past then,
we re think,
if we remain, persisting at or on some certain point,
may we not, mainly almost completely, be self aware?
The gaps insulating our separate selves, as we imagine,
thoughts outside our heads do remain connected rectly
ortho dexterous… sinister off, right on. Switch,
transcendence, sit zazen intently making bits of this
peace.
Inner, breathing conscience, knowing used, to pay
yourself, first
love, neighborly behave, have love as for your self.
I, the boss mind, I, the chooser of destiny from now,
I, ego and id and all, me, you must acknowledge,
I was here when you arrived, in an acknowledged,
innocense, not ignoring a curio juxtaposed, sup-
posed to prompt a why from your own self, why
am I not kind to me.
I am no better than I can imagine proving, to myself.
I must convince me, you are merely watching me be,
in a mind state seeping from a spring I cleaned,
to channel a flow a bit thicker than a seeping…
Sit with me a minute,
measure the brevity,
leave be the reason, I wished to feel you there.
Knowing how I love you, determines the worth
of my own love.
Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 12:54 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC