Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jules com Nov 2012
I don't recall the moment responsibility grew arms hugging
with gnarled fingers, while burdened skies wrap like a promise,
with its soft tenor of lies and seduction.

Disowned, I remember the drunk old lady who hung
over my shoulders puking responsibility, as if to discharge
toxic waste on a pre-mature baby struggling in labor, while death
chokes the innocent, lost in love's knowledge.

She could have warned me, even better, ridiculed me rather
than put my head on a bludgeoned block allowing me to become
a scapegoat for all the past, present and future mistakes:
Some, of which was manufactured in threads of innuendo
by off-loaders.

These bones of mine are exposed in the twilight of their naked
prejudice, and 'I swear I could hear clouds' curse my name, chanting
wrath, creating chaos through veins of pride, before darkness
fell feasting off my flames.

There is nothing like hollow skeletons of the dead rustling
around in graveyards alone. I stopped to think despite efforts
of going solo; how I miss the stony silence of that skull, bent
with anger seeking solace from my venomous touch.

It would be a blessing to retreat into silent reveries
where I am alone, I am alive, the dead are no more, to wrestle
ghosts with words spoken into the heavens asking,
"is there enough forgiveness left for me?"

I don't want to remember her dead face, how it looked
when her neck snapped while life drained from her stiffened eyes.
I want the abstracts of my life to fit.

So, I howl upon her bitter pill - release me...


7/11/2012
Ria Nagpal Jun 2013
Zeus was the king of gods,
The god of sky and weather,
Law, order and fate.
A regal man,
                      Mature,
Sturdy figure,
                      Dark beard..
Royal sceptre,
                      Eagle..
O, how can I ever forget his passion for his Lightning Bolt,
No one dare touch?
Then again,
                                                                ­                                              I seek..
the power of lightning.
the cackle of thunder.
the massive electrostatic discharge.
                                                      ­    AWAKENS MY SENSES
For years I have longed..
For your beloved bolt
But when I accepted that it could not be mine
And shall stand faithfully by your side..
M Y W A N D E R I N G S ended..fullstop
Another bolt greeted me...
No intention had I of embracing a new love...
For your bolt has been sown to my heart..
Sealed forever..
Inaccesible...
The keys are lost in my crimson pool of despair..
No one shall ever find it.
You have ruined the recesses of my heart.
                                                          ­                                                       But, let me tell you something.
the key was unearthed.
found by true love.
brought a sparkle in my eyes
a glimmer in my sunshine
a power arose that beat                                                   *the daylight out of..

dark and daunting thoughts.
I beamed that 1000-watt smile once again.
Thank you Mr. Lighting Bolt of Hello Poetry
For when you turn yellow, the electrons in me sizzle..Feel the spark, Zeus?
K Balachandran Nov 2015
Lust, when it grips us,  is a sudden swell,  
occasional in a mountain river flowing downhill,
from the high ranges of inflamed emotions.

The ecstatic roar while the  discharge is easily forgotten ,
the river  runs dry soon enough , when the torrents abruptly stop,
as the winds chase away the clouds, all of a sudden.

But those pools, your blue,beautiful eyes, clearly defy,
rules of seasons,brims invariably with love pure, all along,
and yes,it gets replenished,from the deep well springs
of your heart, it remains full whether I am far or near.
Arthropod King Nov 2011
It is at this point.

I usually am very effussive with words and all that, but I just don’t have it in me in this moment.

I no longer remember the last time I felt life cascading into my limbs, from my heart.

Apathy :P

It seeped into my weary shoulders.

Bleh bleh bleh bleh

Words are a waste of *****


Melancholy deeper into the upitty piper purportedly…


Silence. Silence and silence, but why…?


Snow – Nieve – Plumba – White-out – ***** on porcelain – Aruba -










***** on porcelain.

















A faint portrait of hollowed passions and GRAPEFRUIT.
I… I’m sorry, really. I got nothing. I wish I was so noble as to turn bitterness into something majestic, but what are you going to do about it, right?... Right?... Right?.... RIGHT???.........RRRIIIIGHT????? Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff, right? Ra-ra-right?



nO? OkEy DoKeY, then…







Words are stupid, They always have been. Words irritate people and cause wars, and controversy, and celebrity gossip and all that intoxicating pink, glittery smoke. I wish there was a machine, like a bird-making machine, that used dusted, vivissected concepts and turned them, unaltered, into spewed energy. A violent discharge of emotion, but no, no emotion, whatsoever, NO EMOTION AT ALL, cramped and jammed up inside like, like, like, like a trainwreck, still perplexed about the fact that it didn’t have much room to wreck havoc with in the first place, and go smash into burning-red steel debris, so it doesn’t, no no no no, it doesn’t know just what to do, and the innocent bypasser is looking, looking from a dusty cliff among the desert, UNABLE TO FEEL ANY EMOTION, INSENSITIVE, and it was supposed to be christmas, but no one’s weeping for you, no one, that ****’s out of fashion, you’re **** out of luck holmes, clusterfuck full of ****, and ****, and bad luck, sorry holmes, no way, ******* luck, sorry holmes.

Bloh bloh bloh ilhc 674VDW864 A6WD8 4wd 64 WD 64c 6 4wf c6




















Ronald McDonald, sitting on a curb, face resting
upon the palms of the hands, no happy meal for this clown,
no lipstick-painted and make-up-enhanced
smile on the face of this clown, not today,
doesn’t feel like being
a clown today, even though he WAS born a
clown, from a colorfull egg full
of Crayola polka dots, no, and no, and no,
and who would want to be a clown?
Certainly not Ronald McDonald,
and certainly not today.
And words are stupid*.

I wish tears could flow cascading out of these eyes. Redeemer tears, pointing at the crude sculpture that the chisel of undrained emotions carefully crafted inside these tiresome intestines.

Rioted tears, a revolution of tears. I would very much like to scream right now, thank you very much.













I wish I could cry bitterly, weep sorely for my fate and for hers.




























However…




There is nothing in my chest but apathy.

I have no nerve response.

Zero sensorial signal.

So… I can’t.











































Whatever.
GaryFairy Mar 2022
I am going through with it
the doctors promised me that I would have the full female experience, including discharge
discharge!

this is the way to keep my sanity and actually get free money and extra rights
extra!
******? I am serious.
Christian Bixler Dec 2014
I sometimes walk down a crowded street, buffeted by a river of humanity, and fantasize in my walking, from here to there, what it would be like if people just moved slower, thought more, danced more, loved more. I'm dreaming I know, a world fit only for the realms of sleep, this what I have imagined. And yet....I can't help it, walking down a frosted side walk, cars speeding by, snowflakes falling to melt against my coat, and sending a delicious shiver of cold, a sensual chill, that travels up my spine to exit through my lopsided ears, and steal a ride on my steaming breath, out into the cold from whence it came. I'm walking and I'm dreaming, two lovers kissing in the snow, oblivious to those who pass them by. Why can't I have that, why can't I gaze into anothers eyes the way they're doing, and realize in that moment that we would be together forever? Can't I even fantasize about it, dream about it, in idle moments between the strains and hardships and petty coincidences of daily life? I sigh and walk on, brushing past the cluster of people, standing in the way, gazing with longing and envy at what those two had found, together, in a snowstorm, in between the bustling, ordinary, regular, and boring moments of daily life. I look in through a store window, at the blurred and fuzzy television screens, snow swirling up there in the wintry breeze, and wreaking havoc on the broadcasting towers, away over there. I know I don't have time for this, for staring idly at the wintry sky, and the blurred, nonsensical images on a set of fuzzy TVs that someone forgot to take inside. I sigh and turn away, glance at the time. 6:15. Work would start soon, a dreary start to a dreary day. Maybe I had time for an espresso, quietly in a corner, in a crowded Starbucks, full of other people like me, trying to get warm, to find a quiet corner to sit down in, amidst everyone else trying to do the same thing. I'm walking again, turning a corner, brushing by, people like eddies of water, swirling around me. I can smell the Starbucks now, can taste the coffee, stale now with the dry and unexcitable feel of countless repetition. I stop outside, and try to remember the first time I entered this Starbucks, how it felt, how it tasted. What was the atmosphere like, was it any different from what I feel now every time I go in?  And what about the people, were they always so quiet, so reserved, huddled in corners, alone or in small groups, never talking, never greeting, never standing, till they've finished their coffee, and have to then, and go out back to their work, whatever it may be? I stand there, for a while, only slightly aware of the passing of time, the tick tock of the countless clocks and watches spinning endlessly around me, all day every day. I stand there and then reluctantly conclude, with a sigh and a shake of my head, that the Starbucks in front of me, all it's scents and tastes and it's muffled sounds, all the atmosphere of the place, was the same as it had ever been, and it was only me that had changed, becoming as much a part of the atmosphere, of the feel of the place as anyone else in there. I found that I was walking again, my steps slow and heavy, and that before I knew it I was inside the place, with all it's smells and tastes, and slight, unconscious sounds exactly as I had recalled them to be, as if to reinforce the unfortunate conclusion that I had just come to. I sat down and ordered my usual, a ,mocha without the cream, and two bags of sweetener. I watched the waitress as she moved off, laden down with orders and trays. I watched how she walked with a smooth and hitch-less gait, a perfectly neutral stance, meant, I was sure, to support her ability to be nearly invisible, when she wasn't taking your orders, or walking by. I sighed and sipped my coffee that had sat there for a while now, as I had considered what the smooth and nearly unconscious movements of the waitress might mean. I regarded her for a moment more, and then turned back to my coffee, and became once more a part of the place, it's atmosphere reflected in me as it was in all the other customers, standing or sitting in the room with me. I finished my coffee. As I rose and tipped the waitress, my thoughts returned once more to my unrealized fantasies, my waking dreams, idle and counterproductive as they were. I was outside, walking again, the cool snow accustoming my face again to the chill crispness of that winters day. I looked up and saw the Chrysler building up ahead, lit up with its thousand lights. I looked back down again, down towards the ground at my feet, watchful for a patch of slippery ice, the practice so ingrained in my nature that it was without thought that I did so, scanning the side walk for any treacherous stretch of ice in front of me. And as I did so I failed to notice any change in direction, or ambiance, so immersed was I in my bleak thoughts. I looked up and found myself far from where I was supposed to be, and with five minutes left for me to show up at work! I cursed once, and then sighed and turned around, searching for any familiar landmarks that might show me the way back to show up late for work, and hope I wasn't going to be denied entrance because my boss had just about had enough! This had happened before. Finally, yes there was the Chrysler building, glowing, a giant among many. I was preparing to head off to my inevitable scolding, and probable discharge, when I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder, small and warm, a woman's hand. I turned, slowly, very aware in that moment, of the average percentage of muggings that occurred in this part of town. I would have been prepared, at least to an extent, to have found a gun aimed at my face, or a knife, low, so as to best gut me, if I should attempt to flee. I stared in shock however, at the small card, with a phone number, written in an elegant scrawl being presented to me by a perfectly lovely woman, dressed in a black overcoat and crimson scarfe, standing in front of me with a smile on her pale face, framed by red locks, shot through with streaks of bright orange and yellow. The girl with the flame colored hair, presented the card to me and said, "Hi! I'm Christy." I simply stared at her for a moment, then at the card. Then," Madam, I think you've mistaken me for someone else, my names Dave August." She smiled even wider, showing strong white teeth, and replied," No I haven't. My organization is doing a charity program, and I thought you looked like you could use some company. We're having a dinner at 10:30 pm on Sunday, December 15th, and we've been instructed to invite whoever we feel should come. Think about it, okay?" And then, before I could react, she had pressed the card into my hands, and was already, halfway across the street, walking quickly, and with a spring to her step. I looked after her, and then, slowly, I smiled. Perhaps I would go to this dinner at 10:30 pm on Sunday, December the 15th. Perhaps I would at that.
I feel very warm right now, curled up in my armchair(drinking coffee) and rereading this poem. I think that if it were only snowing outside at the moment, then this would be perfect.
Gaye Sep 2015
Yong Marx, yet to die, jumped
out of an air-conditioned car, a
journey Berlin to Bombay as the
Dream merchant of Utopia
metamorphosed him into a subhuman
white bearded national bourgeoisie.

The third world girl who was climbing a
tree without Motorcycle-
Diaries hung to her clothe looked
like an Engelian mistake possibly
not from Cuba, Zambia or Bolivia,
certainly not a Soviet artefact.

Alienation, self-affirmation and all
unlike modes of production confused
his surplus brain. The dichotomy
of imaginings and reality with the
girl proven anti-thesis kafkaesqued
him an added ****** struggle.

A shift in his struggle with a smile
on her lips gave a  hint of welcome to her
Animal Farm. He did get inside.
The moulded furniture, preoccupied sickle
and the lacking exploitation
left him a disappointing proletariat grin.

She opened her mouth, blue words
did not discharge. Neither the mid wife
nor the revolution pumped her conscience.
He got up, disappointed, alarmed,
cursed the chap who misdirected
to a class-less renewed pattern.

“Comrade” she said shaking his hands,
the blood did stir for a moment but
the fight less slant , **** suits and
her distant reality pained the rationalist.
The amusingly alienated young Marx
jumped into his car and left for utopia.
Violet Wade Jan 2013
My bones are shattered porcelains
And Dr Frankenstein is recreating
My body from the toes up

I have more screws than tarsals
More plates than fibulas
More scars than cracked paint on derelict homes

Greens, yellows, blues, blacks and purple
Dye my leg in splendid hues
Plaster decorates my toes and pokes under my knees

Pins and needles tingle constantly
But these are made of steel as well as
Peripheral neuropathy

My hospital discharge form
Reads like poetry
Displaced tibea

Goes on adventure and brings back
Swollen instead of souvenirs
And crushed ligaments as testament

To broken steps they have fallen on
Perhaps it is not as profound as sunsets or romance
But I am finding beauty in pain

Intricacies in injury
And the limits of my creativity
To distract from nightmares

Of how this happened
And to drown out the hungry goblins
Deep in my guts demanding opiates

Like drunken teenagers
They loot my stash and trash my viscera
Legal or not I'm still a ******

Writing poetry rather than sleeping-
Confronting demons with stanzas.
Over screams I am armed with the arsenals

Of metaphor, personification and symbolism
Whatever the pain, my posse of poetry and prose
Has always got my back
chachi Oct 2010
It's 3AM and all of the streetlights are flashing,
Yellow, Yellow, YELLOW,
like they have the same fever I do.

I believe that streetlights are a subliminal form of messaging,
just letting me know, that all of the communist party members
of China are actually martians. But most nights they usually just
complain about how ***** they are. And as I pass underneath
I tap my accelerator in a sympathetic way, that says
I know man, I feel your pain, and I think,
he doesn't even have hands to help him out.

As the distance between us grows
I also long, for a companion to help
discharge my capacitor.
Do you think she’ll witness my downfall
When she goes to hell?
Do you think she’ll feel the anguish of empathy?
Do you think she’ll find a way to introspect
Instead of projecting?
That would cause her suffering.
I won’t be grouped in with fools
Who discharge ressentiment
With dreams of those who’ve wronged them
Suffering more than they have...
But I know it must discharge somewhere.
What constrains me?
The stunted superego
Suffocates the id
Holds it down and kicks it;
A child beaten
Tells itself
It doesn’t want to hurt its family
Until the day it’s realized
That it can’t.
And then, its spirit broken
Lays dormant, a pressure cooker
Tells itself it doesn’t want to rise
To cope with having fallen.
It stays silent and still long after left
Alone.
Retreated so far into itself
That now it fails to recognize
The threat is gone –
The abuse goes on
Long beyond it’s ended.
She told me she loved my poetry,
That I inspired her to write
About her father.
I should have seen it coming then
It was no different from before -
I let myself be used again
I have no excuse.
Joe Cottonwood Jun 2015
Timmy Ray, poor boy from Kentucky.
Football scholarship.
Degree in Business Administration.
Respectable job, bored.
Enlists with best friend in Marines as a macho trip.
Vietnam, what a crock.
This ain’t football. And it ain’t fair.
Schemes to get out,
ignores an order to go out on patrol,
******* mission, but the friend goes,
gets shot up bad.
Timmy Ray runs out to help the friend, is shot.
It’s all blood and mud, man, blood and mud.
Friend paralyzed, Timmy Ray okay.
Court-martial for Timmy Ray, discharge.
The friend takes an overdose.
“No moral here,” Timmy Ray says. “My
war story. That’s all.”

Timmy Ray makes sculptures, big metal things.
No people.
“The human body’s been done,” he says.
Downtown Detroit in front of an office
he welds a pile of globes,
names it “Love” so he’ll get paid
but he says it’s really “Moose Brain.”
These days, Timmy Ray’s hand
trembles. He volunteers at a suicide
hot line. No moral there,
either. Moose brain.
Judgson blessing Feb 2015
I can be anything except such a humbug .but the likeness of life made me the nut im .in fact i cant help vanishing and mumming such as clam or sap headed or something .when i come to look at  the ***** of it ,im up with terms: SOCIODREAMOLOGY and DREAMECONOMY .two words that i laid mine that it impart me ,as my quality of poor Socioanalist to jabber about, a deep perusal i meant.Sociodreamology:our actual trend of life and pregnanted, or our cast of mind or our virtue in fact constitute in sort;  the "common heritage" of all of us or our "common-social ".now we hang up to this 'common-social' up the whip of new "social-consciousness" drops along and shows in a new trend of thing.such a trend are the fact of some genius well bestowed gifted thoughtful minds .that from their dream conscious; anyway, in practice :teach or indulge us by act of behaving or writing or speaking {lecturing or social communication stereotype }the venue of new trend or tide ...altogether it heaves around by logic tact new world that bans down the old fastidious one we were up till then : philosopher,a novelist ,poet ,painter,journalist ,editorialist, nonfiction writer ,fiction writer,hack writer, song writer,script writer,movie,actor,fashion designer,cartoonist,lecturer,...and or sometimes pastor ;hold the searching log-fire of the social consciousness-awakening ;the real deepest buried aspiration of human-being.all human being or maybe some only have in our deep ***** what can shape the concrete meaning of our glory.but nevertheless the glory that lays in gloom ,faltered by our unawake .so the SOCIODREAMOLOGUE or people may lecture ,behave ,or write about new things ;but the element cast constitutes the sleeping vision that lays dangle down our unawake .but them are social awaker.whereas such new fact hit upon the seizure of humanity soon as uttered forwards ,hereto unknown .like and an ability of whirlwind dispatch we grab it frenziedly at its size and tame it as mellow as we were on know of it for life long .the sociodreamlogue seems discharge of of his duty then and will be up for the more of it .they are what makes our system of things grow more reasonably and more factual .nothing more except that is within our grasp escape their conduct. they give command the nature-culture ...for more that can not have the revelatory bowl  of savant .all things drive in but they are the lengthening shadow of only some thoughtful minds .more significantly as the perceive deemed to ****** ,some sociodreamlogues cast of mind is quite far beyond the grasp of understanding of most of their fellow citizens ,sometimes more than thousand years are  needed to catch with their mind .sinister fact ;some of them were grieved by some maso-sadonist or maniac in the fresh triumph of their oeuvre .some so may paddle in phantasm or ridicules ...it cant be anyway without a precedent of conflict of nerve ;the somehow game of casting a well intent erroneous appreciation on one other art .but if you are sociodreamlogue make sure your dream no alter our life such into doomed commitment, although drive us into green expenditure ......catch up with me for the second term:DREAMECONOMY
Slithering sparks slicing the darkness in two, it makes me shiver.
Off in the distance is another storm I'll have to weather,
but it's okay I'm a striver.
Because if I catch even a glimpse of that beauty,
I can stand though even the strongest storms.
softcomponent Nov 2013
Waterborn water horse upon shutter drawn blades,
in the form of these blinds in your face
as you peek beyond peaks in your ability to see..
pixels in the mountaintop, drippity drop drop on the cottages embalmed moss roof,
and a beautiful day, and a beautiful day, and a beautiful thought that told me to say
I felt it in the air when you said that you cared through your fair molten hair on that blonde summers day on top of the rock of Eli, in relay for the slight elegance
upon and underneath irrelevance, and shelf Imams in books on Islam..

Shabat Shalom on Hanukkah.. celebrate the stars insofar as Andromeda,  
my mommas thumb on her 13th year, her 16th beer, the work-man's clear intentions with the way he mentioned words in tension, clenching marbles in his startled glance,
***** minds rubbed upon his work-man pants as this city grows bigger prose in the rows and roads of goals never reached upon the age of 70,
plenty see this creed as Cree in nature,
ship-shaper upon white paper, written in natures hip-hop hater,
forests are erased here.. drugs are never laced here.. I feel like I'm 8 here.. but I'm 8 with a career in thinking intangible all-honesty's on unity..

I see God as the groove master.
I'm just a disco disaster, looking to plaster a little bit of dissidence upon the fence in recompense for the densest chessboard invasion of Kicking Horse pass,
but alas, I broke my arm, wearing a cast you can hope to sign if you wish to charm the devilish sin of sugar-gin, open in to relig-IN.. as in I no longer ****, I Pope..
I wanna take a Pope of every single religiounana,
and see what they saw, and believe what they want, and concieve of their god and impede on their laws..

crows caw, upon a cross and there's a JEEzz-- static discharge.. he interrupts me..
he says to look.. and when I look he tells me to see see see see see, please see, I see what you see, it's not Jeez-me like the Bible Belt.. it's Jeez-US,
we must realize what I meant to grasp as the cusp you have teetered on since before the common age.. each and every all of us is a sage in the same way..
we're all God, and.. we're all God, and.. we're all God, and.. we're all God, and
shake the hand of the rainbows faint glow.. merry old isotope, Santa Claus hippy hope, never tethered hemp rope, old Egyptian space probe, great globe goddess..
**** decimated Odessa, I guess us was lest we forget this or get us to pinch out the **** of a historical era of error.. concentrated terror of terrorists in concentration camps..
an oil lamp burning upon sand saddled socks and snow-covered rocks and an old Buddhist templed temperament held in this mountain of tea and honey..
wearing my runny nosed halted-horrific, all-it-every-and-us is this terrific..
my distance from hand to hand is still as prolific, get the gesture? or am I just a cosmic jester?

lesser is best, so lest we forget the rest all congested in bread and butter covered brain matter,
rain shatters flames and her face was the place I escaped for a hit of false tragedy.
an older poem.
Todd Monjar Mar 2017
Fierce swept demons of rage and turmoil; expecting their want yet receiving disloyal resistance.

Never satisfied from the thirst of unrelenting desire for certainty, frustrated in fits of insanity. The beat continues…

Dissipation is anti-climactic, unsatisfying to a gluttonous hoarder of familiarity. Never quite becoming the salve.

So lay down and succumb to the soothing velvet of green moss and the intoxicating tumble of liquid solitude; enveloping and layering a thickening skin of joy.

Imagine a melting slide of pure being, unquestioned and reminiscent into a pool of weightless flutter; ecstatic without direction and blissful in anticipation.

All that exists now is breath and the pinpoint endlessness of possibility.
Alin Jun 2015
Beware Hooray
the Cavemen are comin
jumpin up and don knock-kneed
sweepin the hill with their new harvested beard

Howdy chicky chicken leg
What’s goozin under your sweaty shirt
lookin like ma granpa
with ur baby cream breath
or is it maybe somethin else luscious
spring of intermittent discharge
making rainbows duplicate

yep gimme two too
when u come to me
oh when u come to me

cause I am a matured
lovin n **** is my blanched bird nest
neatly crowned above my head
I shall unbind it for
adorable is your lady color short pants
I bet holographic daisies growin
along the tri-d charm
of your ******
if any yeah if any

Beware Oh the cavemen
Run flat out nou
cause I shall feed you
to my auntie’s aging dreams
with the buncha hair on ur face
u look lika somethin
resembling
a man before her famine

Beware Oh the cavemen
Auntie is comin
he he
David W Jones Jul 2014
He stared into the eyes of Persephone
Mesmerized by the reflections concealing
A broken spirit; those beautiful
Blue eyes drawing in his
Struggling soul.

Doubt polluting clean air;
His instinct deceived by
Her notions of favor.

Intimacy shared within their
Conversational delight exposing
His veins, sliced by her
Blades of desire.

She was unresponsive,
Numb to his plasma discharge;
Darkness chased away the light
Night consumed his day.

So much calamity beneath
The surface of serenity.
Absence of closure; misinterpreted
Memory lapses. Broken beginnings
irreparable; shattered petitions
Severing their nerves.

Scent of pain and sorrow
On the sheets; raindrops
Collecting on the glass.
Inhibitions washed away
By drizzling expectations.

He wants to send her a rose,
A small token of hope
In the midst of demons.
Lora Lee Apr 2017
April 16, 2017
Dear You:
         When I think of you, there is this gap of space unexplained. Almost like when you have to stand up during a spiritual chant or sacred ceremony. Or when you look up at the sky and realize how very small we actually are in this Universe of the Divine. When you see how the half full moon cups so beautifully in tangerine glow across your section of sky, and how the clarity of stars imprint the constellations of the human heart.

    I guess what I am actually saying is, you are so much more to me than a female *** *****. You are the sacred. The down and *****. As earthy and tangible as it gets. The source of rolling waves to exquisite pleasure. A pivotal and unique part of my feminine self in the form of the mystical, the beatific, the mysterious.The portal for the source of Life itself.

But let us start at the beginning.

I remember you, at the tender age of 5. Exploring the mysteries of my own body, under the covers where no one could see. At about age 8 or 9 I worked you over so well that a small explosion ensued, and I was utterly  stunned, thinking that perhaps I had done something wrong?
I dared not ask
a  soul.

Only later (but not much later..when the red flow started) did I read about the subject "Our Bodies, Ourselves" and later "Changing Bodies, Changing Lives". (Thank you, more open-minded stepmom :))

As a teen, I was lucky enough to have amazingly progressive ***-ed at my NYC school. AIDS was rampant and our ***-ed teacher, an ex-priest, had us rolling condoms down bananas in no time. How we laughed and turned the color of beets. And watching "The Miracle of Life" was pretty amazing.

By then I had a very good relationship with you, Little Miss V. I stroked and coaxed you out of your shell any opportunity I could. My cherry was intact, but popping and bubbling over was fantastic.

You are connected to the trials and tribulations, as well as the highs and lows, of first love and love in general, as I discovered in time. I was exposed to the vulnerable, the tender, the painful. I realized that your intense physicality was indelibly connected to my emotional source, veins mapped and held together my strings of blood and discharge. Somewhere, I needed to protect you, and myself, to know when to give freely and when to hold back.

You were the gateway to motherhood, to the slippery sliding exit from the womb of my prodigy. The intense pain and wonder of it all. The place where it all began, the result being three gorgeous and sassy love bugs. "What, Mommy? I came out of there?"

You are now the woman goddess source of me more than ever, and despite the powerful pain and ****** rivers each month, I am thankful. Thankful to be a woman, to be alive, for the inter-woven magic of the ecstasy and ardency of emotion. So much better to feel it all.

My womb with a view.
My moon's tides, ebbs and flows.
My candied oyster, succulent shellfish.
My pretty little cat.
My aching, drooling, dripping swamp of longing and loneliness.
My jewel of enigmatic darkness.
I will never take the words "****" and "*****" negatively, and can turn it right around on those attempting to do so.

For you hold the links to my heart, to my soul. You are my little nesting fuzzy creature, worthy of kisses and appreciation. You are my internal bomb ticking and ready to blow, my slick, hot bud poised to flower.

And, oh, how you flower.

k, Little Miss, V…Ciao for now.
Love, ***, the woman-goddess-love –light source you own
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHRAPIwsS5I
"I will come to your river,
wash my soul.
"Let me baptize my soul /with the help of your waters"
Rattle my yolk control, baby.
Give me a turbulent flow.
Squeeze my needle valves, baby.
Insert your directional valve.

Come on upstream through the orifice.
Give me that viscous friction.
The discharge coefficients are ready.
Blow out your resin agent.

   What's the matter, baby?
   What happened to the elongated pump?
   Do you need a pressure compensator?
   It looks like a reducing valve.

   How about a little friction
   to reexhibit some rigidity.
   Let's renegotiate positions
   and dissipate some frigidity.
Song lyrics by Riz Everson (Christopher Terry Everson) - 1979

(P.S. - It was funny how the lead singer of our band used to try to sing the last line, "and dissipate some frigidity" and not make it sound like "anticipate some frigidity")
I am an incomparable queen
My pristine beauty can only be seen
It can never be depicted in words
For me many kings draw out their swords

My lips are more beautiful than rose petals
And my hips are softer than jasmine bouquets
One may die looking at my bubbly *******
No wonder the kings want to enter my interior crusts

My eyes are lovelier than wild lilies
My hair flows on my shoulders like rivers
My waist makes a feast to beholders’ eyes
The cupid shoots at me the wreaths of flowers

But only a brave king enters the kingdom of my beauty
For him I devotionally discharge my romantic duty
And dedicate my body, heart and soul
That should be any woman’s natural goal
Charlie Chirico Jul 2015
What if you're the addict that has accepted the first step a long time ago, while lines tallied up against years, and once familiar folk have given up hope long after patience; there's you first squatting in the corner of a house you barely know, with people you just met, and you shoot water in your veins, now on bent knees, praying this water is holy enough to ease the pain. The immaculate fix.

Arms outstretched, facing east and west, needles as big as nails delicately caressing the flesh and resting on sweaty palms, emaciating by way of lust and fear. No Will. No Power of Attorney. No Will Power.

They say Adam walked with Eve in the garden, and it was Eve that bit the apple. But you never hear the part about Adam killing Eve with silence. Adam was the snake. And of course above, and beyond, omnipotence comes with the added responsibility of design. "Would you consider yourself a Type A personality or a Type B personality?" The doctor asked.

One suicide and one admission to the psych ward should always be coincidental, but in case it's not and silence becomes deadly you must keep a straight face. Let the guilt mentally choke you, like a murderer choking the life from their victim. You look around the ward to find that there are no staircases. But empathy and keeping that straight face will lead to discharge, and programs, and twelve steps.
And you know when you get to that final step, it takes only one more
to push off and fall away.
Damaré M Jun 2013
Lights! camera! action!
Pretending that events are accidents
Appointed laughter
Framed gatherings
Steady buffing
Drawing
Smearing
Lathering
Turn your face into a masterpiece
And your fashion into a catastrophe
Then your catastrophe into outcasting
Take away normalcy then preach you blasphemy
Then wonder "why are they after me"
X then dotted line just says "that you're mine"
It says "sign neatly" and "read briefly"
And now that he's gone...your the repeat
And if you leave...they gotta 3 peat
*** will get you a check
And if you thirsty for a disbursement... Burp out controversy
And swallow grade A *******
You'll get applauded for being a first class fool
Who didn't graduate
But there's still fans who gravitate
While your old class mates are still someone else's class mates
The former students now have degrees
The ones you call to design your foreign furnished mansion
The ones sold you that million dollar car
The ones you pay to fly your private jet
The ones you pay to manage your career
The ones who indict you for your drug possession
The ones who over the counter prescribing you your addiction
The ones who will do the incision to try and maintain your drunk liver
Miss and mister
They demand their respect
Surviving grueling semesters
The newly alumnus
Will retire after they make a difference
A difference for our children
And by the time that your contract has ended all you talked about is killing
Rims spinning
Money getting
Blunt twisting
Liquor sickening
Girls stripping
Discharge sipping
Jewelry glistening
Superstition
Stomach itching
Teeth missing
Thread stitching
Eye twitching
Thirst quenching
I don't get it
Albums full of insignificance
...
But your not trippin'
Because you won't fall as long as you don't walk when your boss tell you to crawl
If you rock shows
Wear clothes that you never chose
If you pose to live a life that's another man's role
You'll soon believe that you're not from this globe
And you'll soon speak how satan stole your soul
Everything you value is so extraneous
And for that you're famous?

So it's only one recipe
If you wanna be a celebrity you must lose your integrity
I don't hate people who are on television I just dislike a lot of things in which they deprive themselves of their decency and allow themselves to take a part of. I really dislike the fact that people who are televised has millions of people's attention and never consider themselves as teachers nor do they try to be a little philosophical and put some of their time up for use. Maybe I won't worry as much if I knew that our generation didn't  rely on celebrities to define us. Them people live a totally different life and not because I said so its because that's what they want and get. However, there's exceptions to my claims today some of them people mean well
Joe Satkowski Dec 2015
stupid puppet controlling everything
strings are tied to its spine
it writhes, gesticulates, and vomits

there is nothing for them on this planet
they are getting tired
so tired

Maybe one day they will hold me accountable
SG Holter May 2014
Speaking with our hands
We discharge disagreements at
The windows of our castle.

Taking out the eyes of our love
One retina at the time.
Blinding our union until

We forgive each other with
Passionate agreement.
Speaking with our hands.
There’s nothing I remember, so I shall invent a life.
It all starts with a dichotomy. Speech, lack of speech.
Logos, preceded by the lack thereof.
A heartbeat, maybe, echoing to form a vowel.
And then a sigh, with inexplicably twisted tongue.
“I”…
I…
I’ll tell you. Raising a finger from my desk.
I’ll tell you how it began. I was in the dark, and decided I had had enough of it.
I flipped on a lamp at my side and began to write.
There weren’t any words yet, but there were symbols for sounds, and that was close enough for now.
I pressed enter, and the message flew to a compatriot.
Or an enemy. This flush dichotomy of forms abounds!
I hold my breath and wait.
Waiting, for a response.
Waiting, to imagine words I’ll never hear.
And the light hums.
I…
What is it, inside that filament
which speaks?
What is every minute morsel of matter telling me about my beginning?
I’m not sure I want to read it, when my phone shakes.
But that’s what that behavior dictates.
A laugh, a cold analysis, a response.
This could go on indefinitely.
I don’t even know where you are in the world.
I’ll never see you.
I think of a more advanced dichotomy, I read about.
It was attributed to Freud.
A baby masters the objective universe through two utterances
in a ball game.
Fort… gone.
Da… there.
For now, these words are silent, but if I were in a crib
You would be the breast I long to devour,
The meaning I would choose to fill my mouth with
Muffled exclamations:
DADADADADADADA!
And I cry. But I don’t know what this all means to you.
Because I haven’t told you with electronic signs.
I’m not sure the word “to cry” carries any meaning.
It just stands in for fear.
Fear of being alone in the world, with the dark,
And no logos.
But I could go on for days reading walls of text on webpages developed by people
who have long since died.
I can summon the likeness of every celebrity onto a screen
rubbing my ***** while I look at them.
I can hear the music—
I CAN HEAR THE MUSIC—
Of all the world, vibrating. Rhythms contracting, like vulvas after birth.
And the silky, black discharge is this emotion in my brain after I think of you.
I created you with my words.
I illuminated my world with the thought of you.
And now I have nothing to say to the creature I created.
I am in horror before you.
Fort, fort, fort, away!
You have left me, without ever being present.
You were here, you were gone, I had no control.
And when I weep, the fear drowns the sun’s luminescence
The clouds hide the sky
The air sculpts my lungs
With emptiness
after words have come out.
MMXII

http://www.ncspp.org/fortda/origin.html
Aaron Wallis Jun 2013
A subcutaneous doubt musters and you itch
The shore line depression is here without hitch
A sea of harps instigating an emotive atrophy
You discharge and you dive with certain alacrity

There is a boat afloat out in the briny of spite
Oar-less and holey amid the bark and the fight
You plunge and you quaff as you leave quiet behind
A clamber and a climb and inside you will find

Ruckus and roar as you rock with each crash
Thunder and hail as the waves tempestuously lash
Gladden with the grim elation preserves you
Mirthful and drugged whilst the wet pours through

To the most aphotic of waters that drags you deep
The boat now just wood unto rocks in a heap
Too eager to leap and now too weak to swim
A stoical sink under madness to dim

The seashore despair was a lie to itself
The still and the shielded brimming with wealth
Never attempt to weather a storm
Of a storm as endless as that of that storm

A wish that you stayed a want that you listened
You’d still be where her green eyes glistened
Where love and the good is now once tendered
Most is best left as how it’s remembered.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
he's not my favourite writer as such,
in terms of his poetry, no finer antagonist
for his two virtues: honesty and poignant
vulgarity, and as a "drinking buddy,"
i treat him as an antagonist, you'll see why
when i write the following:

he came to america aged 2,
so obviously, knowing how immigration
works, and how adult migrants
are politely told to integrate, which
includes forgetting the mother tongue,
i came to england aged 8.
aged 4 my father emigrated to england
because the once budding steelworks
in my humble town of birth shut down,
over 10,000 out of work,
then other trades buckled under
the weight of enemy propaganda:
levis, coca cola, john paul ii, you name it.
a vague memory of my father was
impressed into me, the 1994 world cup
is my best guess on t.v.
my mother left when i was 6,
she left me a present, a dobermann pinscher
i named axel (after axl rose from guns 'n' roses),
mad *******, bit everyone
and almost took my eye out after i whipped
him for attacking my grandparent's dog,
an alsatian. so technically the earliest
cognitive developments were done
with my grandparents as my surrogates:
grandfather was high-up in society,
was a manager of one of the steelwork
conveyor belt warehouses that produced
train springs and produced the steel columns
for the 1998 world cup in france (stade de france),
but he drank, came with the job,
broke my grandmothers hand,
when i was five i marched him drunk
from his mother's birthday party through
the entire city - but i guess things happen
in your childhood that you can't alter:
his father left for america (spoke 7 languages,
so obviously not a serf), and when he wanted
to make contact his brothers lied about my
grandfather being a rascal of sorts: thief,
hooligan, so so they could get their grubby
hands on the family estate, which, rumour
was it, was rather large; and maybe seeing
the red army invade (boys who slept in barns
in hay with goats), and the ss-man in black
uniform giving him sweets (herr, bite bonbon,
although he says it like the man's name was,
yep, herr bitebonbon - child's word association,
mr. who-gives-sweets), then seeing the ss-men
in rags fleeing from the hammer and sickle dragon;
not to mention his stepfather beating him,
being a miner in the newly integrated lands of
silesia, and many more details i guess.
so anyway, they were my surrogates for some time,
i came to england aged 8 without any knowledge
of the language, learnt it pretty quick, self-taught
mostly, brain still a sponge.
father laid the foundations of dockland's light railway
at the time, but then had a chance to become a roofer.
poland was not in the european union at the time
i had to depart when i started high school,
figure out the reasons sherlock:
spent an autistic year in poland, split by not having
learned the language to a satisfactory point
and forced back to relearn a tongue i was slowly forgetting.
after a year came back to england, plan was to go
to argentina and then america the first time - alas...
but i came with a resolve to never part with my roots,
TO NEVER, EVER, FORGET MY MOTHER TONGUE.
took to studying under grandfather's motto:
matematyka, fizyka i sport / ucz sie, ucz sie, ucz sie.
so i did, went to university to study the sciences,
i could have gone to the russell group bristol or
warwick, but for the budding in me romance to have
started writing ****** poetry, i chose edinburgh.
stayed 3 years, failed french in first year after a brief
losing-my-virginity relationship with a french exchange
student of psychology, failed chemistry 2nd year,
retook exam, no summer fun, 3rd year failed chemistry,
summer in st. petersburg, retook exam and got the ******
degree: immigrants pride and pinnacle i guess.
some horrific **** after, got reduced to working in lidl
for a day, got the job, came in drunk, shoved a bunch
of pickle jars on the shop floor, cut my hand open and
left (politicians are now saying - graduate jobs for graduates,
well, evidently not). but in my 3rd year i met my love,
philosophy - took to it like fish to water, i can't lie,
this is where my antagonist comes handy - he's
being pompous and rightly so at being critical of the
poetry scene, of people studying literature to only
create more literature - i get that, but that's hardly an
attack on learning, or the sheer love of it;
and based on reading an academic work on him,
i gather he has sympathisers behind the enemy lines -
but i too don't like poetry to convey naiveness and
innocence to the world, a dreamworld where everything
comes true because of the way you think of it
a priori, since i guess when the world proves otherwise,
there is no original output of idealism, no cute puppies,
but lynched dancing bears and overworked horses
and the fear soaked eyes of cows in slaughter houses,
this *a posteriori
situation leaves most former poets
crushed... crrrrrushed... they either stop writing,
continue writing lies to children, or wise-up,
become as cruel as the world, although a hermit's
cruelty - 'world, on my terms, and with whom and when
you will know that i am still here.'
but it's like that - one invents, the other gets all the credit
and the most famous one of the three doesn't know
the first one when talked about by critics and admirers,
e.g.? tristan tzara, cabaret voltaire, dada anti-war movement
of 1914, invention? cut-up. w. burroughs "perfected"
the method, and thirdly bowie used it too -
critic on television while dirges and epitaphs came:
burroughs' burroughs' burroughs'.
this world has become horrid - all those wars on paper,
all the et tu brute et tu brute et tu brutus?!
all that fame - but ask any banker about infinitesimal
calculus and he will be like... huh what?! what for?!
investments in wars, rocket projections, that kind of thing.
and about that - the horrid nature of the argument:
what came first, leibniz or newton? chicken and egg debate.
both at the same time i guess.
and it's this pervasive first in line, i want to be first in line
incomprehensibility in me -
which means there are only a few famous people
everyone's agreed on, and they're anonymous -
the man who discovered the fermentation process,
and the shaman with ***** who sifted through amazonian
poisons to find a hallucinogenic,
to name but a few of the truly famous ancients.
in conclusion - had bukowski been taught german,
or had been old enough to remember some german,
his writing might have looked something like this;
i too with acne, chernobyl birthmark,
heart condition, and a forcefully induced
****** scheme sophistication brain haemorrhage,
resulting in wrong diagnosis of schizophrenia,
fuelling my subsequent splashing money on
psychiatry books and beating about 5 psychiatrists
at their own game: given my stature of 6ft2
and 253pounds... they were worried i might do
something grotesque - hard to get a discharge,
but got one after 7 years of wrong treatment;
that's like prison, worse, you are living in a society
that tries to pacify you, seeing all the pleasures
of society with people enjoying them, dangling like
a treat, and you're told you're "sick."
i'd rather have spent 7 years with those deservedly
locked up: at least a feeling of solidarity for god's sake:
so as you can imagine, my investment in an internet
presence or the internet's appreciation of it
is about as important to me as yesteryear's snowfall.
Kelli Williams May 2014
There she was, her eyes bright and shining buried in her rosy complexion of which was indecently shown through the discharge of the temperate winds longing like lost military men to taste a woman's sweet words once again. She held in her delicate fingers, thin and unsteady, a chain of sweet nothings that trailed after her scrupulous footstep as if solely existing for the chance to be in her superlative presence. Gladiolus, Poppies, Aster, Delphinium, Orchid, Peony all linked together in a perfect array of scent and color reflecting the consummate image of the girl that led them. The world accompanied her to a cliff looking down on a cold river, the scene smothered with the orange glow of sunset and the sky clear of all but the unwavering flap and call of the birds who claimed it as their own immovable kingdom. She walked to the edge of the land and twisted around, her heels grazing the edge of everything and nothing; life and death; to fall and to walk. Slowly she tipped and her gaze caught mine. I cried out in my head Ophelia, but nothing came to my lips, cold and thin. As she hit the icy drink she smiled, her flowers cast above her about to disappear forever along with all other sweetness worth living for in Denmark.
What the Queen really saw that day
JS CARIE Mar 2019
LIKE THOSE LONG SUMMER DAYS
WHEN THE SUN HAS BEAMED
FOR WHAT FEELS LIKE DOUBLE TIME
IN SLOW MOTION

AND THE UNSPOKEN NEXT THING I THINK WE ALL WANT
AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT
IS TO WATCH THAT BURNING
FIRE-SPHERE
FALL FAST INTO THE CURVATURE OF DISTANT ROUND
AND CONCEDE INTO SUBMISSIVE NIGHTMARES
SUGGESTED BY THE DARK

BUT THE NIGHT IS SO REMOTE
AND THE SWEAT THAT KEEPS
IS TRUE PROOF OF THAT WAIT
SO CONSTANT A POUR THAT I AM NOW AFLOAT

I CAN NOT MAKE A DASH RESULTING IN THE OUTRUN
FOR EVEN A SPRINT WILL SEIZE MY WIND WITH EVIDENT PLAGIARISM

SO MY WAIT CARRIES OVER

INTO A NEGATIVE TIME LAPSE THROUGH THE MIRROR OF REVERSE

MY WAITING GOES ON

WITH AN ACQUIRED PATIENCE AND INNATE COMPASSION FOR MY OTHERS SHOES
A DISCHARGE OF INSIGHT INTO THE INCEPTION OF MY SELF DESTRUCTIVE CONTINUANCE

LIKE MY DESTRUCTIVE MAKE UP
THE WAITING FEELS UNNOTICED UNDER AN UMBRELLA OF INEVITABILITY
BUT FORMS FEET OF SWEAT
IN THE SHADOWING WAIT
BEHIND MY EVERY STEP
mvvenkataraman May 2010
Face the task, do not retreat
Silently perform your portion
With hope let heart be replete
Success to you God will apportion
Taste life whether bitter or sweet
This will help in peace-promotion
Bad comments make all very sad
Mad attitude must not be had
Glad thoughts to peace of mind add
Calmly if duty if you discharge
Peace will steadily flow
Against you none can charge
Even if you are very slow
Scope for success is really large
This fact you must surely know.

M V VENKATARAMAN
If we work calmly, We can proceed firmly. If we silently perform, Joy and peace we can form. A quiet attitude proves we are shrewd.
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.
Berne Aramaic Element
Kimberly Brown Jun 2013
His eyes rolled upward
straining so hard he blew a vessel crying blood.

I rubbed each streak from his eyes,
******* the spatter of blood from my thumb.

“When I’m finished with you you’ll be dead.”
I told him frankly
before I began to stroke him.

The impulse came on so roughly
that I couldn’t control myself.
He came and I was left with his discharge in my hands.

Copying what I had seen him do to a street *****,
I feed him his own
watching him cough and spew out.

I closed my hand against his lips
and forced him to swallow
before I began to laugh.

The hysterical sound filled the room,
the vibrations shaking the hangings from my walls.

I couldn’t help myself.
As if a power beyond me gripped me
I laughed a throaty laugh before returning to my victim.

I stroked him till in his pain he became hard.
“You like to ****, and I am ****.”
I laughed.

His cry of pain made me stroke him,
clenching strokes which made him arch
and each time he came
I gathered his discharge into my hands,
cupping it as if it were water,
lifting the fluids to his lips forcing him to drink.

“I live for your pain you feed me and in turn I feed you.”

Again I pulled strip of skin from his inside thigh.
Ah, the close-lipped scream was music to me.
“Sing to me.” I crooned

before I peeled another strip slowly
letting the skin tear away from muscle
watching tendons rip
giving forth blood that slid down
pooling on the table,
then another and
another
till he lost consciousness from the pain.

“But you cannot hide within the confines of you mind. We must finish.”
Zero Nine Jul 2017
She'd gone from discharge straight back to the office, dressed in her sweats and intake band. She got into the elevator, fingered lucky seven, and rode the way up stuck in molasses thoughts, in anger and shame.

She was no one's property, The Agency's least of all.

The neon lights over River City's southeast side popped and sparked, dancing gracefully in the array of dull grey derelicts. She watched them exploding through the safety of the glass.

She'd tell Asgar exactly what she thought.


"I don't give a **** about the why, I give a **** about the how. How could you do that to me, man?"

I was doing you a favor.

"No, don't even -- you were doing your ******* self a favor. "

Oh, of course. We all thought you might like to have some teeth, Miriam.

"Don't say my name like that! I'm not your ******* daughter."

Calm down, okay? Please?

"You made a decision about my body that was not yours to make. If I want to be a toothless crone, that's my business. If I want to have one *** and a ****, that's my ******* business, Asgar. "


And when it was over, as most do, she rode the way home with her head hung below her shoulders, wondering if the words she'd found to say were too true. She wondered, what some wonder, if her truths were better used when they were cut from the script to defuse inconvenient situations.

When she went inside, Miriam threw her keys and her clothes into a pile by the bedroom door, pulled the band from her wrist and then stepped into the shower. She'd go out. If she truly weren't worth her weight, then she'd throw herself to the city, hoping to trade what was left for ***.

And drugs. Drugs, too.
If you think it will stop
Don’t
Hold on to the railing
Jump
Over the edge
Onto the sidewalk
Separated from streets
Marauding, rubber tires pummel
Surveying alleyways neglected and
Trash cans brimming with disregard
It’s lonely here, as if each pebble were a
Reveler
Ambivalent toward you
Unkempt and stiff
As if petrified and disavowed at once
Ignored, timid
Apathetic discharge
Free,
Fallen
From a short, raised canopy
Of steel
And wood and
Bones and
Dust
Chalk; dried on a lesson
Conveyed
Battalions, battalions
Marching
Avid miscreants
Scurrying
The masters couldn’t paint as fast
And each trifling matter
Marches past with
Battalions
Battalions
Battalions
And Stones

— The End —