Awhile ago, I had been at a party. I’d listened to someone talk about Kate Moss for ten minutes straight. I left the room, found my flatmate and asked why anyone was interested in anything at all. We’d come up with no answers.

All this started a month ago, and all that started long before. I will not bore you with trite aphorisms about how I survived, or how wondrous life has become since. At some point my mind broke. This is a collection of memories about my attempted suicide and the absurdity of the entire experience.

Wednesday, 26th of April, 2017, midnight.

Couldn’t sleep. Surfed the internet. Fell into ASMR sub-culture.[1] Meta-satire, transitioning to post-irony, before pseudo-spiritual out-of-body transcendence. I thought, *this is the most ****** experience I’ve had in half a decade, while a woman spun spheres of blobby jelly around my head and whispered elephant mourning rituals into my ears.

Tuesday, 27th of April, 2017, afternoon.

Woke up mid-day. Looked at all the objects in my room, unable to understand why any of them mattered. Milled around the flat. Went online to order helium so I could make an exit bag.[2] Cheapest source was The Warehouse, though the helium came with thirty bright multi-coloured party balloons. I kept imagining one of my flatmates walking in later that day, seeing my crumpled body surrounded by these floppy bits of rubber and a note saying this life is absurd and I want out of it. There was no online purchasing option, however, and I couldn’t be bothered walking into town. I began reading suicide notes. One was from a kid who’d slowly taken pills as he watched TV, culminating in a coma. That sounds pleasant, I thought, whilst at the same time knowing that it takes up to three days to die from painkillers and that the process is anything but painless or final. I opened my drawer, found a bunch of paracetamol and began washing them down with water, whilst listening to the soundtrack of End of Evangelion.[3]

I’m not sure why, but I began crying violently. I knew I’d have to leave the flat before my flatmates came home. I hastily scrawled a note that said, donate my body, give my money to senpai, give my possessions to someone I don’t know, it smells like burning, it was good knowing you all, before walking out the door with Komm Süsser Tod playing in the background.[4, 5] I’d already written my personal and political reasons for suicide in the pieces méconnaissance[6] and **** Yourself,[7] so felt there was no reason for anything more substantial.

I wandered the back roads of my neighbourhood. My body shook. I felt somnolent, half-dazed. I wanted a quiet place to sit, sleep and writhe in agony while my organs slowly failed. My legs kept stumbling, however, and my head was beginning to feel funny. I found a dead-end street and sat on one of those artificially maintained rectangles of grass. There was a black cat lying in the middle of the road, just bobbing its head at me. I zoned out for a bit and when I came to a giant orange cat was to my left, gazing intently into my teary face. I tried to refocus on my crotch. I couldn’t help but notice a white cat across the road, pretending not to be seen. It had a dubious look on its face, a countenance of guilt. What the hell was going on? A delivery person looped round the street. People returned home from work. Garage doors opened, cars drove down driveways. Here I was, slowly dying, surrounded by spooky ******* cats and the bustle of ordinary existence.

“Uh, hey. You look, uh, like something isn’t . . . do you need, uh, help?” a woman asked, crossing the street with a pram to reach me. I groaned.

“It’s just that, you know, ordinarily, um, I mean normally, people don’t sit on the sidewalk,” she continued, glancing down with the half-confused look of a concerned citizen who is trying to enter a situation outside of their usual experience. I mumbled something indistinct and went back to staring at my crotch.

“You know, I can, er . . . I can . . . I can’t really help,” she ended, awkwardly. “I have a daughter to look after, but . . . if you’re still here when she’s asleep . . . I’m the red fence.” She darted off without another word.

Had she wanted me off the sidewalk because it was abnormal to sit there, or had she seen the abnormality as a sign of something deeper? Either way, she’d used abnormality as a signifier of negative change. Deviancy as something to be corrected, realigned with some norm that co-exists with happiness and citizenship. I was being a bad citizen.

I thought, I miss those cats. At least they had judged me in silence. Wait, what the hell am I thinking? This is clearly a case of deviancy associated with negative feelings. Well, negative feelings, but not necessarily negative change. Suicide is only negative if one views life as intrinsically worthwhile—

I could hear pram lady in the distance. She was talking to someone who’d just come back from work. They thanked pram lady and began moving towards me. Arghggh, just let me die, I thought.

She introduced herself as a nurse. From her tone and approach, it was clear she’d handled many cases like me. I’ve never hated counselling techniques. They seemed to at least trouble neoliberal rhetoric. There is little mention of overcoming, or striving, or perfecting oneself into a being of pure success. Rather, counselling seemed to be about listening and piercing together the other’s perspective. Counsellors tended not to interject words of comfort. They’d tell you mental illness was lifelong and couldn’t be fixed. They’re the closest society has to positive pessimists. Of course, they’d still want you to get better. Better, as in, not attempting suicide.

I talked with nurse lady for an hour about how life is simply passing. Passing through oneself, passing through others, passing through spaces, thoughts and emotions. About how the majority of life seems to be lived in a beyond we’ll never reach. Potential futures, moments of relief, phantasies we create to escape the dull present. About how I’d been finding my media and politics degree really rewarding, but some part of my head broke and I lost all ability to focus and care. About how the more I learnt about the world, the less capable I felt of changing it, and that change was a narcissistic day dream, anyway.

She replied “We’re all cogs. But what’s wrong with being a cog? Even a cog can make changes,” and I thought, but never one’s own.

She gave me a ride to the emergency clinic because I was too apathetic and guilt-ridden to decline. Why are people so nice over things that don’t matter? Chicks are ground into chicken nuggets alive.[8] The meat-industry produces 50% of the world’s carbon emissions.[9] But someone sits on the side of the road in a bourgeois neighbourhood and suddenly you have cats and nurses worried sick over your ****** up head. I should have worn a hobo coat and sat in town.

Tuesday, 27th of April, 2017, evening.

I had forgotten how painful waiting rooms were. It was stupidly ironic. I’d entered this apathetic suicidal stupor because I’d wanted to escape the monotony of existence, yet here I was, sitting in a waiting room, counting the stains on the ceiling, while the reception TV streamed a hospital drama.

“Get his *** in there!”

“Time is the real killer.”

“It wasn’t the cancer that was terminal, it was you.”

Zoom in on doctor face man.

Everybody hugging.

Emergency waiting rooms are a lot like life. You don’t choose to be there. An accident simply occurs and then you’re stuck, watching a show about *** cancer and family bonding. Sometimes someone coughs and you become aware of your own body again. You remember that you exist outside of media, waiting in this sterile space on a painfully too small plastic chair. You deliberately avoid the glances of everyone else in the room because you don’t want to reduce their existence to an injury, a pulsing wound, a lack, nor let them reduce you the same. The accident that got you here left you with a blank spot in your head, but the nurses reassure you that you’ll be up soon, to whatever it is you’re here for. And so, with nothing else to do, you turn back to the TV and forget you exist.

I thought, I should have taken more pills and gone into the woods.

The ER was a Kafkaeque realm of piercing lights, sleepy interns and too narrow privacy curtains.[10] Every time a nurse would try to close one, they’d pull it too far to one side, opening the other side up. Like the self, no bed was fully enclosed. There were always gaps, spaces of viewing, windows into trauma, and like the objet petit a, there was always the potential of meeting another’s gaze, one just like yours, only, out of your control.

I lay amidst a drone of machinery, footsteps and chatter. I stared at ceiling stains. Every hour or so a different nurse would approach me, repeat the same ten questions as the one before, then end commenting awkwardly on my tattoos. I kept thinking, what is going on? Have I finally died and become integrated into some eternally recurring limbo hell where, in a state of complete apathy and deterioration, some devil approaches me every hour to ask, why did you take those pills?

Do I have to repeat my answer for the rest of my life?

I gazed at the stain to my right. That was back in ‘92 when the piping above burst on a particularly wintry day. I shifted my gaze. And that happened in ‘99 when an intern tripped holding a giant cup of coffee. Afterwards, everyone began calling her Trippy. She eventually became a surgeon and had four adorable bourgeois kids. Tippy Tip Tap Toop.

The nurses began covering my body with little pieces of paper and plastic, to which only one third were connected to an ECG monitor.[11] Every ten minutes or so the monitor would begin honking violently, to which (initially) no one would respond to. After an hour or so a nurse wandered over with a worried expression, poked the machine a little, then asked if I was experiencing any chest pains. Before I could answer, he was intercepted by another nurse and told not to worry. His expression never cleared up, but he went back to staring blankly into a computer terminal on the other end of the room.

There were two security guards awkwardly trying not to meet anyone’s gazes. They were out of place and they knew it. No matter what space they occupied, a nurse would have to move past them to reach some medical doodle or document. One nurse jokingly said, “It’s ER. If you’re not moving you’re in the way,” to which the guards chortled, shuffled a metre or so sideways, before returning to standing still.

I checked my phone.

“Got veges.”

“If you successfully **** yourself, you’ll officially be the biggest right-wing neoliberal piece of ****.”[12]

“Your Text Unlimited Combo renewed on 28 Apr at 10:41. Nice!”

I went back to staring at the ceiling.

Six hours later, one of the nurses came over and said “Huh, turns out there’s nothing in your blood. Nothing . . . at all.” Another pulled out my drip and disconnected me from the ECG monitor. “Well, you’re free to leave.”

Tuesday, 27th of April, 2017, midnight.

I wandered over to the Emergency Psychiatric Services. The doctor there was interested in setting up future supports for my ****** up mind. He mentioned anti-depressants and I told him that in the past they hadn’t really worked, that it seemed more related to my general political outlook, that this purposeless restlessness has been with me most of my life, and that no drug or counselling could cure the lack innate to existence which is exacerbated by our current political and cultural institutions.

He replied “Are you one of those anti-druggers? You know there’s been a lot of backlash against psychiatry, it’s really the cultural Zeitgeist of our times, but it’s all led by misinformation, scaremongering.”

I hesitated, before replying “I’m not anti-drugs, I just don’t think you can change my general hatred of existence.”

“Okay, okay, I’m not trying to argue with your outlook, but you’re simply stuck in this doom and gloom phase—”

Whoa, wait a ******* minute. You’re not trying to argue with my outlook, while completely discounting my outlook as simply a passing emotional state? This guy is a ******* *******, I thought, ragging on about anti-druggers while pretending not to undermine a political and social position I’d spent years researching and building up. I stopped paying attention to him. Yes, a lot of my problems are internal, but I’m more than a disembodied brain, biologically computing chemical data.

At the end of his rant, he said something like “You’re a good kid,” and I thought, ******* too.

Friday, 28th of April, 2017, morning.

The next day I met a different doctor. I gave him a brief summary of my privileged life culminating in a ****** metaphor about three metaphysical pillars which lift me into the tempestuous winds of existential dread and nihilistic apathy. One, my social anxiety. Two, my absurd existence. Three, my political outlook. One, anxiety: I cannot relate to small talk. The gaze of the other is a gaze of expectations. Because I cannot know these expectations, I will never live up to them. Communication is by nature, lacking. Two, absurdity: Existence is a meaningless repetition of arbitrary structures we ourselves construct, then forget. Reflexivity is about uncovering this so that we may escape structures we do not like. We inevitably fall into new structures, prejudices and artifices. Nothing is authentic, nothing is innocent and nothing is your self. Three, politics: I am trapped in a neoliberal capitalist monstrosity that creates enough produce to feed the entire world, but does not do so due to the market’s instrumental need for profit. The system, in other words, rewards capitalists who are ruthless. Any capitalist trying to bring about change, will necessarily have to become ruthless to reach a position of power, and therefore will fail to bring about change.

The doctor nodded. He thought deeply, tried to piece it all together, then finally said “Yes, society is quite terrifying. This is something we cannot control. There are things out there that will harm you and the political situation of our time is troubling.”

I was astounded. This was one of the first doctors who’d actually taken what I’d said and given it consideration. Sure we hadn’t gotten into a length discussion of socialism, feminism or veganism, but they also hadn’t simply collapsed my political thoughts into my depressive state.

“But you know, there are still niches of meaning in this world. Though the greater structures are overbearing, people can still find purpose enacting smaller changes, connecting in ephemeral ways.”

What was I hearing? Was this a postmodern doctor?[13] Was science reconnecting with the humanities?

“We may even connect your third pillar, that of the political, with your second pillar and see that the political situation of our time is absurd. This is unfortunate, but as for your first pillar, this is definitely something we can help you with. In fact, it’s quite a simple process, helping one deal with social anxiety, and to me, it sounds like this anxiety has greatly affected your life for the past few years.”

The doctor then asked for my gender and sexuality, to which after I hesitated a little, he said, it didn’t really matter seeing as it was all constructed, anyway. For being unable to feel much at all, I was ecstatic. I thought, how could this doctor be working in the same building as the previous one I’d met? We went into anti-depressant plans. He told me that their effects were unpredictable. They may lift my mood, they may do nothing at all, they may even make me feel worse. Nobody really knew what molecular pathways serotonin activated, but it sometimes pulled people out of circular ways of thinking. And dopamine, well, taken in too high a dose, could make you psychotic.

Sign me the **** up, I thought, gazing at my new medical hero. These are the kinds of non-assurances that match my experience of life. Trust and expectations lead only to disappointment. Give me pure insurmountable doubt.

Friday, 28th of April, 2017, afternoon.

“The drugs won’t be too long,” the pharmacist said before disappearing into the back room. I milled around th

Three back and second from the left:
my home for period six,
a desk more scuffed and scratched than its parallel, footprint littered tiles.

Here, three quarters of an hour is a day for every minute,
where the name of the month is Algebra II,
and the year: 2009
multiplied by the square root of x
minus pi.

I have a front row seat to a bird’s eye view
of Josh’s back.
It is a russet landscape of rolling creases,
the ever changing dunes of the Sahara.

Tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day (God bless the Irish,
drowning it all in liquid ignorance),
and I hope to muffle the jaded sighs; the irritating pinches;
the variables
with a lush and verdant mountain range
subsiding to grassy plains
as Josh hunches—listening intently to his eraser—closer to his desk
(two back and second from the left)
to write the value of y.

These are my modern English translations of sonnets by the French poet Stephane Mallarme.

The Tomb of Edgar Poe
by Stéphane Mallarmé
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Transformed into himself by Death, at last,
the Bard unsheathed his Art’s recondite blade
to duel with dullards, blind & undismayed,
who’d never heard his ardent Voice, aghast!

Like dark Medusan demons of the past
who’d failed to heed such high, angelic words,
men called him bendered, his ideas absurd,
discounting all the warlock’s spells he’d cast.

The wars of heaven and hell? Earth’s senseless grief?
Can sculptors carve from myths a bas-relief
to illuminate the sepulcher of Poe?

No, let us set in granite, here below,
a limit and a block on this disaster:
this Blasphemy, to not acknowledge a Master!

The original French poem appears after the translations

"Le Cygne" ("The Swan")
by Stéphane Mallarmé
this untitled poem is also called Mallarmé's "White Sonnet"
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The virginal, the vivid, the vivacious day:
can its brilliance be broken by a wild wing-blow
delivered to this glacial lake
whose frozen ice-falls impede flight? No.

In past reflections on its thoughts today
the Swan remembers freedom, but can’t make
a song from its surroundings, only take
on the winter's ghostly hue of snow.

In the Swan's white agony its bared neck lies
within a guillotine its sense denies.
Slowly being frozen to its inner being,
the body ignores the phantom spirit fleeing...

Cold contempt for its captor
is of no use to the raptor.



Le tombeau d’Edgar Poe
by Stéphane Mallarmé

Tel qu’en Lui-même enfin l’éternité le change,
Le Poète suscite avec un glaive nu
Son siècle épouvanté de n’avoir pas connu
Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix étrange!
Eux, comme un vil sursaut d’hydre oyant jadis l’ange
Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu,
Proclamèrent très haut le sortilège bu
Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir mélange.
Du sol et de la nue hostiles, ô grief!
Si notre idée avec ne sculpte un bas-relief
Dont la tombe de Poe éblouissante s’orne
Calme bloc ici-bas chu d’un désastre obscur
Que ce granit du moins montre à jamais sa borne
Aux noirs vols du Blasphème épars dans le futur.



Le Cygne
by Stéphane Mallarmé

Le vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd'hui
Va-t-il nous déchirer avec un coup d'aile ivre
Ce lac dur oublié que hante sous le givre
Le transparent glacier des vols qui n'ont pas fui !
Un cygne d'autrefois se souvient que c'est lui
Magnifique mais qui sans espoir se délivre
Pour n'avoir pas chanté la région où vivre
Quand du stérile hiver a resplendi l'ennui.
Tout son col secouera cette blanche agonie
Par l'espace infligée à l'oiseau qui le nie,
Mais non l'horreur du sol où le plumage est pris.
Fantôme qu'à ce lieu son pur éclat assigne,
Il s'immobilise au songe froid de mépris
Que vêt parmi l'exil inutile le Cygne.

Stephane Mallarme was a major French poet and one of the leading French symbolist poets.

Keywords/Tags: Stephane Mallarme, France, French poet, symbolism, symbolist, symbolic, poetry, Edgar Allan Poe, grave, tomb, sepulcher, memorial, elegy, eulogy, epitaph, sonnet

I lost myself once upon a time
in a place that was only whispered to me in dreams.
Where the fog is thick and threads through the seams
of street lights and street cars with *** fights and brillo bars.  
I tell you I lost myself on the tongue of insanity
who swallowed my soul to feed its humanity.
I lost myself
in a city that found me;

San Francisco, 2013

Let me extend two points like two bridges
that begin in separate places but lead to the same thing.
I’m talking the people in both hands with countless art in between.

The people, the people, the people.
What can’t be said about the near million faces
sleeping on warm pillows or cold stones,
wearing top hats or traffic cones
because not every night are people thriving.
But they’re still surviving, getting busy living or getting busy dying.
In their eyes are stories being told
once you wipe those windows into their souls, deep.
You see it all,
Just like every star in the fall when the sun goes to sleep.
I gave a homeless man a dollar who gave it to another homeless man who then gave it back to me
Like we were passing a love note that said, “You need this more than me.”
So which of us was the one without the home?

Home I soon found in the art of every step taken,
one foot in front of the next.
I can’t walk through that city discounting the side effects.
I was drunk,
but not from bottles or cans
I was drunk from the hands
that told tales with graffiti art to camera pans.
and countless other melodies
massaging bricks into the landmarks that spanned.
Culture sprinkling up and down the hills and between the cracks
Painting colors in the sky as the rainbows stacked,
Finding pots of gold by merely lifting my eye lids back.

There is so much to say about this city in the bay,
that is held in place by the people of race
and the vessels of art that encompass in its space
like stories and attitude,
survival and gratitude,
muse and expression
in delight or depression.

I tell you I lost myself in that city.
But I know now that being lost is sometimes the only way to be truly found.

The mystery deepens with slow steps
down the drive to that green mystery box
that holds the secrets of the universe within its grasp.
Besides the bills that need attention
invitations to church services
'fresh cuts'  from  butcher going down
products  the clothing store  discounts
power bills powering me up
water bills wetting me down
local rags headlining unknown street corners
filled with rage and graffiti
police searching for crims
(not on my street-No)
preachers discounting heaven for a tithe
car license rebirth
warrant remake
local  school financial support
what else is new?

I've recently installed another box next
standing beside green box
flip all of the above next box
for recycling.

I only keep the one
which says in small print
No ******* collections on Labour Day.

Author Notes
Do you have the same problem and solution
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 months ago

It harassed free fall, it was affected by the friction force in the absence of the tefillah, the walls became more taxed and accelerated with gravity that exceeded the acceleration of time, gravity triggered the rest that was in the outside walls and made different kilometers apart, with the free fall at more than 9.8 km per second. Beneath the ground the dimension was made lower than the intake embankment, creating placements in revealing swaps in the solar position, for anyone trying to level the force of fall and its acceleration versus gravity around bodies that were moving accelerated and scattered. The earth constantly hurried its mass to preponderate and go where something or someone could rescue it, the air was inked with an offer in the cases of the imprisoned airs, which from the graves adjoining the valley of Kedron kidnapped its areas of lavender physiognomies to link it to the mantles of the Tallit, which in some cases arose with thousands of souls from their graves, to receive the cushioned rubble between which they were electro-magnetized with the blankets, and the wiring they generated, conceiving that they would gather them in the naive and demiurgical plates, for the holistic retransmission of the tract to Patmos, starting from the Cyclades all the way to the Dodecanese.

The sensitive ex-karst plates of Patmos trembled through the passageways of the Cyclades, which permeated in a ratio of the first reflection in the distance vision that approached between both physical episodes, but the second axis of reflection was made aware in an unknown perspective close to the underwater elevation of the Profitis Ilias, close to the entrance sinkhole, between the variables of the inter plates that were assigned to the reflective tapes of the Beit Hamikdash that mutated to the Megaron Áullos Kósmos. Here the omega will resume a minimum of constant forces, emphasizing the friction that bellowed by the hands of the pro-zealots who had left those sarcophagi in the Kidron Valley, in the average anchor values of the great leaks of the friction with the falling water by millions from the inexorable wind that aided the indivisible objects in the Kidron valley ratio, as a reflection of free fall hitting the friction between the Bern Olives, with torrential rains that were made periodic for an esplanade near Mount Scopus. This seat suffered from the force of friction in the fall of the wall, appreciating the burials that were and will be the reactionary phases of the Hellenistic degree. Objects faded to the state of rest and gravity that cavorted through the valleys, replicating distances more than periods of Elijah in the Judah desert itself and in the Dead Sea. From the depth of the valley, aqueous elements emerged with the proportional speed of the falls of the material and immaterial bodies, outlining the second Newtonian law, as the holy water submerged into the flow of the super-atomized savory, which was reconverted into the same Beit Hamikdash, to materialize in the submerged and hidden effects of the pagan force, hinting at the analogy of the equinoctial of the Dyticá that pushed the wave of the Kaitelka whale, in the constant of speed, tensing the force of the rocks that never stopped moving until his body igneous was quintupled in the fifth dimension beyond the consciousness of those who do not understand immaterial physical abstraction, in fractional microseconds.

The density of the rain filter that had been volumized from the submerged interstices, created the gravity of the horizontal movement that subdued the equation in kinetics that gave the differential in the unresolved expectation of the cessation of movement. Where the amount of reaction is more than what would go to Patmos, disproportionate to the macro pulleys that oscillated in the meridians, speed, and acceleration. Prior to the decoupling of the forces of fall in the already submerged bodies that were counterbalanced to give rise to the volume cords that detached from the largest chamber of the wall, to record the final sequence of wear generated by the reconversion and balance points of their masses, then the starting pedestal accumulates and is reconnected with this phenomenon of the Invisible Eclectic Portal of Patmos, being aware that they would have to enter the cavern, after having ceased their work for this mass retransmission of the reinverted wall to propel the Megaron uprising. Within three months after the Hellenistic Full Moon, the colors of the Tefilah will become mathematical, fascinating the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the reef of Patmos. The sanctity will count the astragali in front of the cyclamen for the delicate advances, wearing the blue-green of the quadrinomial that represented geodesy in its points of order and of its evangelist faction. Confusions were overwhelmed not to stop the movements of splendor in the effusions of the storms in sacred prayers in the room, which takes refuge from Kímolos bringing the souls of Helenikká, for the offices that made the trend of Katapausis after the subsequent full moon. Discounting the three months that never elapsed since Vernarth arrived on the Eurydice.


Kaitelka and the judgment of her abode would determine the corpus and the psyche of the irascible necromances of Borker and Leiak, subordinated to Zefian so that the torrential rains on Patmos are perceived by the colder of condensed water of Cassandra that Beit Hamikdash had been bringing with two anthropomorphic shadows that had been supporting him, that of a Cohen, Levita and a Samaritan, they were the guardians that came from Jerusalem to Patmos to assimilate the enthronement spectrum of free fall converted into free ascent were the fourth arrow that spectrum for the first column to be erected. The breath of all of them became more entropic each time that would be concentrated in a certain haze that was released by its titanic whale snout; Rather, I say of her presence that she was raised by some larvae, which came from certain Zeus dresses that he had expelled to free the larvae that were from her immortal garb, looking like bait for those who stalked him with necromancy. . But this time he would be very contemplative for the construction of the Megaron de Vernarth, because amphitheater was a cause of low politics for his Olympic spectrum. The energy or Evegeia, was primed for objects that took forms of papyri covered with invisible enzymes tried from Qumram, but the cause of Mortis revived the larvae making the oblivion of the era that continued after the Mortis of all legions multiplied by the phrases that were sinister from the true matter of physical remanence.

The Last Priest smiled his blessing
indiscriminately, bridging, seeding,
building a new priesthood
beyond borders, across tribes,
ignoring gender, discounting class,
blind to race, snubbing rank,
denying privilege and preferring
a new holy nationality for refugees
for stateless souls like mine
- like ours

When I stop
I notice your unwavering presence
your persistence surprises me
because I neglect you.
Lovers don’t do that.

In my dreams you are there
passing through my imagination
like a genie yearning to gift me.
Your stories teach me about your desire
to interrupt my ordinary.
I even remember a few of your tales
and try to figure out what they mean
for my dull self.

I know. You don’t like me discounting my self
because when I do so
I discount you my precious one
and the awesome power of your love.

Inspire me today
a day of needed and neglected work.

You are here my love
in every fiber of my body
every impulse of my mind.

I will dive into the river of your compassion
and be refreshed by it.

Poetry ought to do things right
and document reality
but modern muses lose the fight
celebrating diversity.

Out-doing themselves, our leaders all
legitimize perversity.
Who gave them this satanic call
to demonize normality ?

The Washington nobility
who build a babel here on earth
display a versatility
for showing all their dubious worth.

They can't go One-World fast enough
discounting Christianity.
The matriarchy's mom is tough,
enforcing femininity...

Milk of mammalian global beast
(humanist animality)
From Nanny's withered poison breast
infects us biologically;
maintaining infantility.

The poet sees the line,
Before it’s been read.
It has already been written,
Somewhere in his head.
An idea that settles,
To shape and to mould.
Something reused,
That is no longer old.
Repeatable rhyme,
Or overworked verse.
Through low timbre tones,
Let critics converse.
Discounting so many,
Is judgement a whim?
Tell me dear poet,
When did you begin?
In answer unknowing,
Thought, though not sure.
This is not the first time,
I have written before.
On deeper reflection,
All ages, all minds.
There is no criteria,
All patterns, all kinds.
So why do I bother?
I have need to say more.
I think, so I am,
And I am, so therefore.

I want to make you real
I want to write you into being,
teach you how to feel.
Can I be the song you sing;
can my every keystroke heal?

Let my touch reach beyond fiber and cord,
to reach you where you cry alone
so you know that you're adored.
Discounting the distance we'll both be home;
though apart we have found a sweet accord.

This is my conspiracy
to speak to you so sweetly
that you forget life's maddening pain
and in your heart let self-love reign.

In the presence of any hearing ear or seeing eye,
the oldest man in the room stood and said,

I suggest a motion be made that:
This proven means of reaching a realizable samesame state
of peace and freedom, 'mongst beings of all
breeds tested as sapient and unem us augmentedus,

be administered free at any seven one eighty Fibbo equipped
joy ride facility.

The Motion:
All peace negotiations,
all settling negotiations
on earth,
must now be preceded by
a ranked pairing of the parties,
{what if wit life partners, so we have a four wide}

Yeah, pairs of plus ones, two by two

most worthy of admiration and respect and trust
ranked order,

let the first rank step into the car. wait for the message.
YOUR BODY IS LOCKED IN< YOU CANNOT DIE ON THIS RIDE

each rank takes its place, reads and and agreed terms of unbelief release.
combine con questseers haulin
ah questions mistook
for quests... happens, but

that ranked the riders? the waring bros. us the unem
of four are in car one,
Aha, the roller coaster Poke'mon, as Grandpa

suggested, in the entrancment lesson, did you hear that story?g
This is no linked, but generally,

breadcrumb... weak link back... but later

this is the chunk chunk chunk cogged rotation
of gears in gears meshing

chunk, chunk, chunk to the peak the initial
wave on the Fibbonaci ***** with
one eighty per twist time s

seven,
we endure... ah it is not we riding, ha, I for got
virtual reality, by god, i'd say
pretty good, too.

and we, no, they are upside down, which was the intention,
the whole party of peace negotiators

realize
the terms of agreement
and the benefit of proper ranking
{discounting **** in a coriolis sorta swirl, that shall hap, watch}

Before the pen and ink and all our augmented eyes everseeing witness
war is stupid and too costly at this phase to waste any more unexamind lives on,

beacause we can. We agree, we. the people, peacemakers are

and peacekeepers be... we,

the controllers of every mob on earth, we bodies of words in minds.
War now is as useless as smallpox and polio in bubbles
of babies
where peacemaking is set to kick in after terrible twos,
epigenetically, but  set with the polio vaccine, prenatal-mods hapt in the moms with
the Mario plumbing level.

We are getting better results. At five they are inquisitive,
and comprehend portals need means of access
which must be learned while find ing
messages with
synchronus meaning.

Now, then, that means
something real but we don't know what, yet, grandpa, don't

--soto voce', {golf-whisper}
the key to this portal,
long still being a true let be-er,

but meaning is imagined in the games,
my seven grand children all were born after 3g.
these fresh augmented us, mentally, more than we could think or ask.
They find meaning faster than
we found it in **** and Jane, and The Little Red Hen

The future is bright. Not a big bang. Not even a pop. A sigh,
of satisfaction. Believe it or die, eventually, wishing you had examined
life more close-up, earlier.

Fret not. Later is as real as you can realize. Watch and see.

White snow, gray ice,
Upon the dry, cracked earth.
A quilt lies on top -
A city in the loop of the road.

Above the city, clouds float by,
Blocking the light of the skies.
Above the city, yellow smoke.
The city stands for two thousand years
Under the light of the star that we call the sun

For two thousand years there is war,
War for no particular cause.
War is in the hands of the young,
Medicine against wrinkled skin.

The blood, the red, red blood,
In an hour is simply earth,
In two it holds grass and flowers,
In three it is once more alive
And warmed by the rays of the star that we call the sun

And we know that it has always been so,
That those who are loved by fate
Are those who live by laws not our own,
Those who are doomed to die young

He can't remember the word "yes," the word "no,"
He can't remember the ranks or the names.
He is capable of reaching the stars,
Discounting that this is a dream
And fall down, singed by the star that we call the sun

Viktor Tsoi

My mission, Chanel St. Marc Love every women as my sister negating all ****** desire and my appetite of lust. Regard every man compatible, my brothers, similarities or differences----- no two seeds from the same garden are identical. Yet we are formed in same soil. My attempts to covet godschild are countless to ****** grace from rushing temptations. Prostituting my body for notoriety, Not committing everything to heart .I believe in love but help me in my non-belief. Help me when I ignore friendship for ****** encounters.  Discounting the meaning of trust I raise my eyebrows high whenever *** walks by.  Lord oh lord it’s the vamp in her, the beast in me. Fire attracts fire burning as we sin openly.  For the time being I repent and relapse back in to action. The devil focuses my eyes on the worst decision I will make for days to come. I took back my life for my own and shared it with my demons. Control was given to the worst, my blood is now deadlier than poison and impairs my soul. Free my feelings from filth. Fear of being forsaken before death.   My mission, Chanel St. Marc Love every women as my sister love every man as my brother.

I like to end the game with my shields up
And my hero buffed
And enhancement stuffed
But sometimes that isn't enough
Sometimes I kick the loser while they're down
So they can join me below the ground
In this mentality where I drown

Life is a test
And I gave up
In this game I'm the best
So it's here I'm stuck
In a world of fable
A developer's tale
Where I prevail
And find validation
By achieving victory
Then causing agitation
Because of my misery

Victory means I'm better
Victory means I'm smarter
Once your flag is fettered
I call you a starter
Thinking I'm somehow harder
Discounting my partners
In this digital harbor

With all my bickering
There's no mystery
Why the result starts differing
I hear the enemy team snickering
As my team starts whimpering

I feel my fortune shifting
Once luck isn't with me
And the match starts drifting
From a victorious gifting
To quite laborious indeed

I put all my time into this game
And nothing else
So I feel immense shame
From digital welts
This individual hell
Of a darkened cell
Is where I fell
Convinced my ability
Is proof of some secret potential
I give my life willingly
To prove to gamers I'm special

The Last Priest
smiled his blessings
indiscriminately
bridging
seeding
building
a new priesthood

beyond borders
across tribes
ignoring gender
discounting class
blind to race
snubbing rank
denying privilege

and preferring
a new holy nationality
for refugees
for stateless souls
like mine
- like ours

God needs no defending
God is love
God is good
What is good is evident
It feels good

God needs no defending
God loves in spite of evil
God chooses us even if we don't choose God
To light The Christ in all of us

To destroy in God's name is defiling
God can love even through this misguided attempt
God needs no defending
All is done through love
For every emotion stems from it
or the lack of it

We are not separate from God
We are collectively God
We can only turn away from ourselves
Placing our faith and trust in man
and the here and now
and you zombies don't know what it means
and you keep on keeping on
believing a fake reality
As if nothing else exists
while discounting the truth in your soul
In the aether, in your heart,
God needs no defending
To do so is to believe that we are greater than the collective
That God is weak
God is enlightened consciousness
Only the blind Christ maims in its own honor
God needs no defending
God only requires choice
The choice to love inspite of evil
To choose us even if we don't choose God
To reveal the Christdom in all of us
God requires no defending
Only choice.

The noblemen control the pen, indeed they own the farm,
but nonetheless exude finesse (and need I mention charm?)
with revenue to sate the few, exulting arm in arm;
for all the rest, they wish the best and certainly mean no harm.

The fourth estate stands proud and straight, emplaced upon a peak,
beside a birch where parrots perch and claim the truth to speak;
while hatching schemes, they’re hawking dreams to keep us mild and meek,
promoted by the gods on high, that clever reigning clique.

They spread their lies throughout the sties to keep the truth at bay
and horoscopes are filled with hopes for those with faith to pray;
the other few wait in the queue, with faces made of clay,
collecting crumbs which have become their dreams of yesterday.

The tube embeds the talking heads (you know the ones, the tools)
who on the screens won’t spill the beans, lest mighty might unspools,
so bend the news reflecting views of those who set the rules
to obfuscate and fabricate their pabulum for fools.

With pyrite smiles and other wiles, they thrive concocting tales
that lead to wars on foreign shores, which help improve the sales
of missile tips and battleships, discounting death that pales
and broken hearts for body parts a graveled grave regales.

You wouldn’t guess, the yellow press, when out to make a ****,
will sell their soul (to dodge the dole) and feed the swine some swill –
a trenchant trope with inside dope that gives the crowds a thrill
(when mixed with tripe, they call it hype) and masks a bitter pill.

The tabloids reek of doublespeak – when did the stench begin?
In olden times, with paradigms, no doubt with but a grin;
but nowadays, in subtle ways, there’s far more discipline:
they scrawl their screeds neath headline ledes that give the tales a spin.

A clever dunce tried hard just once to read between the lies
and thereby found that facts are drowned within a newspeak guise.
Yeah, all that stuff reflects the slough they hide behind their eyes,
although absurd it fuels the herd like  sustaining flies.

Within the fort a special court is hidden from our view
where sits a judge who’ll never budge, called Captain Kangaroo;
as justice bleeds, those evil deeds (like leaking what is true)
will be convicted as pre-scripted by the hangman’s crew.

A blue-eyed wight uncloaks the night and when (by chance, perhaps)
his whistle blows, the airwaves close, high crime stays under wraps,
and those that sin prevail again with feathers in their caps;
the price instead’s the leaker’s head, precluding a relapse.

the pattern of the ferns transparent leaf
backlit courtesy of the august sun
caused me pause, left me wary
of the moments construction

it was not the leaf itself or its summer surroundings
the outline design of the radiant green held form
there are few things that truly exist
how could life ever be one of them?

from the burning miracle that is our sun
light and heat escape through emptiness
such a powerful force is softened gently
to lie upon a delicate creation

this led to my eye to construct an emotion
that remains palpable to this very morning
the will to explore all that is around my pinpoint self
requires carrying questions and discounting others


October 4, 2013

Ask me how my life is and
I'll tell you it's hard,
when three feet don't make a yard
but you struggle on
and it's hard.
My life is diamond as well,as
rough cut as hell
but bright and the light shines on through.

I see today, not from some distance or
some listless indifference and now I'm a part of it,the ******* and strife but isn't life good?
hard but good and not as hard as it could be,luckily I have family and friends,not to be used as a means to an end,
but those who would lend an ear,allay a fear,be here for me,give me sanctuary and the will.

Ah yes,
the will,that reason we have to climb up a hill because it's there,because we want a share in the majesty of this life,I'd be a mountaineer because you were here for me.
What has gone is lost,no good counting the cost it won't bring things back,waiting for one more heart attack does not make any sense,living past tense,too intense.

Ask me how my life is and
I'll tell you it sparkles
like sun on a stream,like one of those dreams that you don't want to end but you want to awake and take more of a part,
at the heart of it discounting the ******* and strife
life is
good.

All my life I’ve wondered
      What in the world put me here?
And when the colors glide together
      I must lean back from
  what I see to
        get a better look
    The vivid edges show me
  what time has really done with
my rain-filled skies and
       happy smiles
What movement has
Created from my birth and
    what change has had
  me realize
The events multiply into a
       saga of choices and
things beyond my
       reach
  When pondering my achievements
         I remember the
       simple moments,
              choosing to be cordial
        and the lasting seals I’ve
            left on
                 this place
   If just one indefinite thing lives
    longer than I do
    it’s been worth it
       And even at my pessimistic peak,
   I know that if
    my most horrible deeds have been
coming into possession of someone else’s pen
   and having too much of a good thing-
       words, lips, and candy-
     I’ve done more good than bad
But though I try to pull
       my slack in my
       stronger moments
I can’t quite tauten the string
  of happenstances
        Mine.
   However, this necessitation
teaches me to use my greatest abilities
     the
        first time and I’ve
learned too much to
     be forced to ponder slighter
           things for long
                 It is just the
most important questions of
  this life that
            cause me to sit and wonder
               like
                       the reason I am
                          a pawn of the world
a servant of God
   ballet is beautiful
       but a wordless story seems
            to leave one wanting something
    more and
          when I’m gone I need for
    there to be tastes of my spirit
             in vision and mind
      contentment to replace the ordinary dissatisfaction
          my trunk can grow tall but
        if only a spattering
     of leaves grow from
         branches not reaching vary far
what is the point of growing for so long
           yet if I’ve taught
     children to look deeper
              than crust and see core
     without having to search
                surely I’ve
     achieved a perfect score
             if I’ve molded minds towards
fondness of justice
       I’ve implanted a sound instinct and I hope
     you’ll always trust it
        if I’ve shown anyone that
a full life is gained by
      simply not discounting anything
    I’ve been competent toward my goal.
Why come closer when
         I can hear everything
   here and when
       stress turns it all awry and impossible
    all one has
   to do is
        acquire realization
that success is achieved
      solely by keeping the fire going
another day
       being about
to see all of the
junctures one can overlook
      even the teeth-gritting occasions
        can be
          turned over onto a smoother
side and I
       think most happenings of life are
beautiful
     a tiny boy wondrously tugging soft twists
the night’s skies under a girl’s eyes from
           drowning in pages the previous night
               putting
paint on your nails and orange peels over
            your teeth
                colorful shoes and
            chocolate cake and a
          first kiss on your 14th birthday, even
                    being too scared to ride
   or mourning a dog’s death
      or getting fired for standing up to a
      cruel boss
   holding it too long and
   fights over basketball
              because each and every commodity
               should open your eyes
           to the fact the you are alive
                  (you pick the situations you
                         stay in for
                             the most part and
                                           you have the power
                                            to make
                                                  change)
                                        and I hope you see that
                                          living is not
                                          living
                                                 with no risk
                           every minute is worth it and
                                   nothing happens without reason
                         I want you to see that my confidence of
                             a full life comes
                          from every moment that made it up and
                that my life’s greatest regret
is that I don’t remember every day in it.

i’ve written this so many
different times, usually scrawled
in half fading ink, blood droplets
scattered. this time, for the first time,
i am writing it addressed to You.

you left months ago, left without
a closing goodbye. you left three days
after i last tried; i didn’t even bother
writing anything then. i barely had
the energy to even hold the metal
much less explain my disdain
for the life i have always lived.

my room still reeks of cigarettes
and i wonder if you’ve quit.
i only chainsmoke when i’m
falling back in love with all
the danger, discounting how
unfairly i was treated.
i want to know how many times
you’ve lied to me, because
i watched you wiggle your
way out of glue traps that
were sure to ensnare you.

i am writing this because
i think people deserve closure,
not to leave without a word
or explanation. my reason is
simple: i have no interest
in life. i have no connection
to the world anymore.
i have no connection to
my emotions anymore.
don’t blame yourself
but don’t flatter yourself either.

Numbers are weird; I'm telling you friend;
they start here at zero and go without end
and if that means one thing, one thing at all,
it's no number is big and all numbers are small.
Take the number of atoms in Yellowstone Park,
exponentiate that every tick of a quark
'til the neutrons decay and the photons go dark
and you've still got no number; it's not big at all;
as I told you before, every number is small,
but invert the numbers and don't flip your wig;
discounting zero, all numbers are big.

The aptly named place Bellevue
At the time of writing contains
Eleven beating hearts
Nine, discounting my own
And that of a canine

Three, gaze out to where clouds meet
Peaks in a conspiring huddle
One, seated, inhales her clouds
Burning down from peak to basecamp
One ignores a dog with clear attachment issues

Two stroll in tandem, occasionally comparing screens
Two have wandered off in a
Calculated effort to avoid the
nosy parker on the next bench

By: Cedric McClester

Can you surmise,
Why I despise
A man who tells 10,000 lies,
And counting,
Because they keep on mounting?
Like the ones Kellyanne
Is always discounting
That gush from his mouth like a fountain

He promotes hate
While he prevaricates
Most of what he states
Are outright lies
But supporters are none-the-wise
Because his lies are disguised
As truthful anecdotes
You see they’re quotes

For him deceiving is as natural
As breathing
Which leaves me seething
At the mere notion
That he hasn’t reached his quotient
Though
The lies he tell seem to flow
As his nose tend to grow

A man who tells 10,000 lies
Never stops to realize
Why the righteous criticize
The stories that he weaves
Perhaps he believes
If you state a lie over again
People will start to believe you when
Your Twitter button’s pressed on send







Cedric Mcclester,Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

A speech written for the Royal Institute of Chartered Surveyors' Surrey LA Student Prize 2009*


Ultimately, appreciation of time. For time is both friend and enemy of the surveyor.

-

Time drips well-managed and steadily-growing incomes into the coffers over decades.

It inflates asset values in areas enjoying regeneration and inward investment.

Time builds closer relationships with loyal clients, stronger bridges between partner companies.

-

But time also means deadlines for a surveyor.

Negotiating between stakeholders, the public, local authorities, contractors and financiers all takes time.

Red book valuations must be completed in a timely manner.

And completing that sale within the financial period can make the difference between profit and loss for a client.

-

The surveyor that appreciates time appreciates change.

Change in supply; new sources of finance, new regulations and new technologies.

And change in demand; new locations, new desires and needs, and new markets.

-

But - time is dangerous, too.

Time feeds the elements, destroying the very fabric of buildings.

We’ve seen in recent months how quickly time can wash away years of hard work – how difficult it can be to survive one more month.

-

Thankfully though, appreciating time lets you be a smarter surveyor.

Pricing risk over holding periods, discounting for inflation.

Synchronising lease fall-ins to allow refurbishment or re-division.

Phasing developments to spread construction cashflow and prevent flooding the market.

-

So, do I have what it takes?

Well, I respect the past:

I continue to explore developments from times past in London and other cities across the world, learning what I can from those who have gone before me.

-

And I anticipate the future:

Whilst jobs are few and far between, I persevere – anticipating the time when I can begin to contribute towards healthy growth for my company, our clients, and the wider economy.

-

What makes a good surveyor? Ultimately, appreciation of time.

And it is time itself that brings my speech to a necessary end.

Panegoism is a pandation of mensuration in supersolid pettifoggery against the wafting wasms of wanion that is a wone for wonted license expedited by parabolasters of chabouks nakedized by nasute argali in foutered conflict between bobbinets and sarsenets in catabasis from bushwa pertinacity breamed by brayers and affrayers trying to squelch brisures from conquering stagnicolous stonks by advesperating bangtail luxuries at the forefront of stradometrical neglect because of sphacelated hauteur the sprachgefuhl of elegiac poltroons of irreflex ironless drab docimasy of orectic oppidan maximalism so unseemly it almost seems a chamade of  onyxis eyeservice berating the camarilla of habanera. The hamerkop of proper stagnation mixed with aptitude is a porlocking handsel of immoralism abaft in aberdevine abessive insouciant conformity apay to sideline internecine domestic appui clarigated against desipient deontology by feasting on odontalgia mainlining decuman deadwood as gourmet especially in cloisters of davenport besieged by the frottage incurred by adevism reformulated as rimose varietism of varsal protervity and procacious profligacy immune to vastation because of vehicles of vecordy gouging vectigals in deckled consolation of gerrymandered but gentrified newels marooning the balmorality of subterfuge to enamor killcows often pilloried as sakis into mesalliance with exlex compromise.

The meldometers that tax megacerine meconology juddering against sudd trying to elude juggins judogi of barmcloth catacoustics of cacotopia immiserated ingravescent by the caudles to steeve them sink into cecutiency reminded often of negannepaut only to provoke their obsolescence of stark cisvestism transpontine in beblubbered sentimentalism peenging about bandelets dashed by dashpots of ragmatical rhinocerial romage deprived of tropoclastic nurturance in the rookery of their heyday wases of wapentake cajoling the podlecs pysmatic in incorrigible oppression of rudenture and mugience must the pansophy tread lightly against the polyacoustic repine of scelestious wrackful recklings of gossypine boskets agape with agathism pilgarlicks abide by in jamdanis castrametated as ghastly politicide. The pother of indigence is a pushful brehon encircling quozzes of quilombo reasted in rectiserial substratose taeniacide of anonymity the tabacosis of gorgonized gonophs defiling the umjunction of sumpters of veilleuse vicariant virgations of vis viewed from twiring turtlebacks of skalding vorticism of gerenuk wunderkinds plucked from plucky endeavor itself to glissade over winterkill as gonfaloniers paroxytone as monumental pergola woolding as willowish williwaws seeking to eradicate widgeons as domett by the cloture of peremptory eloquence corraded from the codswallop of the walloping machinations of poverty straining umbracious servitude to rampicks of optimism rather than the coemption of community valor in collimation with timocracy.

The cofferdam between authoritative pragmatica of clepsydra and cirripeds of pataphysics is an antagonism of form over substance wroth with azoth because of the abb of compital nevosity of bronchos caused by scop amounted among nerkas of neutrosophy recoiling in sastrugas of obfuscation beholden to sarangousty transmuted into stulm implodent to incumbent procedure imbricates idiorhythmic if saccadic balanisms of the nutation of the noosphere around circumducted anomalies of umbels qualified by therbligs of subliminal and sublime synartesis of angstroms and the plasma of sedigitated syllepsis sublated by miniaturized coemption of variegated abscissa that provokes the steepest acclivity that any single aerobe known to formative wunderkinds pales to the aftershaft of that bonanza. In such severe akinesia of alaudine alexia only deciphered by algetic subroutines insubordinating plunged wagtail derrick into the dentagra of scientific odonterism can we field the apodysophilia, beyond the specious inveterate and stubborn aphthong of science, aplanatic and apodictic feuilleton of scollardical degus that become integral dedans that cavort like duramen in the famine and volcanic galvanization in the fallow ratheripe certainty designed by stradometrical stridulation to mirror the strahl and diminish the strake by bobstaying probands by the bezique bellecism of contrahent stupidity. In the frogmarch of bonanza contecking cachalots privy to kistvaens of cameralism and the moulin camouflet the spavined of penelopized and gorgonized paludism of mehari indagating because of stulm that the mazzebah is not the mazopathia of laystall kisswonks too scurfy in lineolated limpkins to propel the lugsails at the apogees of achievement because zabaglione is too inscrutable even to zollvereins that gouge a fortune among their zoris of eavesdropped boodle among the hawsehole of highbinder intrigue holderbats thole against hopsacks because of visibilia and vetanda delimiting the ambit of adynamia wed with barkentine prestige into an easement oxtered with overlock jacquards bewildering even the janitrices to the ulterior prerogatives enjoyed by ipecac while the ireless abessive unguligrade subitaneous folly of wagtail tregetours enthused on yawny rather than ****** youthquakes.

The stylogalmaic affairs of baragouins among lavolta and stanjant stunsail with dignified stritches capsizing swarf with baldric portfires of powellisation garnering guerdons basculing because of bathmism scranching inept trichosis with walleteer agiotage because of dommerer yare proairesis to yerk kymatology from fickle and feckless to intrepid and pervicacious that maybe draconian subterfuge anserine to probang by praxeology transfixing prisoptometry might uranoplasty in metapolitics abetted by metaplasmic tourbillons tow themselves slumberous while the alacrity of lavolta tricotees with popjoys of porcellanous tephra milked vaccimulgent in impudence volplaning vivat because of contrahent silence obeyed categorically by the dormant virgation of shambles viscid in hyperbulia. When marauding among holocryptic fringes extramundane in histrinkage harried by the haecceity of brutish bowdlerization, the gnomic futtocks of the foison griffonage dissembles eupraxia in eutrapely that rantipole ecphonesis becomes an ecdysiast of the aurochs of advesperation dwaling in soteriology because the dulia of adiaphoron is a volable virtu  foothot with katzenjammer becomes the mappemonde of macrobian cosmopolitanism flushed by hues of oligochrome by visagists insuperable in vallidom that the vagarian curiosity accidentally twires the tympany dismantling mackintoshes arrayed by the mainpernor of strict docimasy tethered to squamation such that mantissas discounting echards because of chevet becomes a fashionable marivaudage yarnwindling birls of woold despite bickerns wallfish owleries cajole into wangs of slangwhang in the washlands of vicissitude wedelning chrematistic cordwainers with the windlass of their stang recapitulated in ostentation. Couveuses balize and beaze because of bandore, the sennet of sidelighted garbology upstaged by singulted skives ictuating the idempotent because of odedible vulpecular boyaus of oblectation done because of streamlined encaustic quatenus browbeating the quatsch of teenage familisteries flagitating the suboptimal Sarvodaya even with derelict flautino cadged by laevoduction chiliombs whipstaffing impressionable gerenuks sympatric by proxemics to inhospitable wen rimose with jollyboat katabothrons of catacoustics that the websters tower over the phallocrats because of wasserman popinjay panjandrum gauleiters warraying backstays of causerie clatfart amicable to jousting subternatural pickthanks of cittosis amenable to cacophony. The truer virtuosity of weasand meets a cladogenesis of champaign ambitions versus cetacean vultures chabouking the jostle of concourse among superlunary and sublunary carracks warring for cardimelech saffrons of gentrified sagination leading to idiomology easy to iambize spaniolating with nutation to govern the hyperborean capital of catalfalques simultaneous to bluepeters because of abigail bowdlerization of sophianic nidor embodied in truth.