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Koggeki Dec 2015
My table is set for Mirth,
But I will tip my hat
At Heart’s companion:
Aching.
Kumo is the Japanese word for cloud.
I am referencing my, Kumo Poetry Dribble, in the way I personify cloud.

Also, I would like to see you January 1st, 2017.
Epic Monkey Jan 2015
Standing there
With a mute stare
Amazed by you
Paralyzed by you
I became a speechless poet
No free-flowing words to inhibit
Stuck in redundant phrases
Running around in silent mazes

My bright poetry is suddenly evanescent
How did you freeze my precious talent?
My fancy lies
and my sincere confessions
My angry cries
and my serene discretions

My skill dies
distorted by your presence
As my voice tries
hardly a single expression
Then my brain denies
your acute aggression
As my fixed eyes
scream my inner passion

Then you left.

You left
But I stayed there
With my mute stare
Speechless because of you
Brainless because of you
My stupidity crystal clear
My creativity in denial
And you left me here
wishing you stayed near
Suffering from your withdrawal

~Epic Monkey
Cordelia Rilo Sep 2015
watching me always
sunken eyes in the birch trees
black holes in my mind
PJ Poesy May 2016
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud

Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion

Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason

No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach

Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system

Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves

As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery

And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates

But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
I have always felt, keeping in mind the masters' theories, but also pushing new limits, we find our own uncovering of discovery.
Anna M Rella May 2012
Young girl
You get your fix
From every other boy that you pick
Standards once high, now sink low

The attention you crave
Does not go unnoticed
You are digging a callow grave

Once you have realized what you have done
All that seemed fun
Is now tossed in your face
Slow your pace

Reaching the high school low is common
For the promiscuous freshman
Blame the "pressure" for your weekend discretions

Adolescent life reflects poker
Come monday, you will realize
High school is one huge masquerade
Young girl, here come the jokers.
Arcassin B Jan 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

Traced without some deep depression,
Somehow some way you learned your lesson,
But somehow lost with a further testament,
You don't know how much I miss you did you mention it,
Flying towards heaven,
Seven hundred and seventy-seven,
Only 7 minutes in heaven,
somehow some way you learned your lesson,
If only you knew how much I cared about you without the discretions.
Let me breathe
Brandon Aug 2012
My ribcage shatters apart to expose 
Splintering fragments of brittle bone
I scrape them up into a pile 
Offer them to you with a smile
Carving into this sordid heart of mine
With ink spilled from the grip of your fingertips
It spells the words I've never heard
Uttered from the sinister curls of your lips
And the lusting lick of your desire across my death bed of wilted roses
I feel your hunger devouring what's left of mine to give
Your kisses I repress with my tongue
But I'll give in until you're done 
I'll beg for more down on knees with prayers 
when our course has had its run into the immolation of the sun
We'll end our affairs and leave it unrepaired 
dwelling in the darkness that we've built upstairs
I fall into your black tracing scars upon your attack
I feel the bones break in your back
When we collapse our arms around ourselves
Holding tight into a mendacious night
seething with tumultuous roars 
Our bellies hungrily ache for each others' taste
We satiate ourselves until the early whisper of dawn 
Leaving our scars in scraps of flesh and song
The bite of your bitterness sings along

So tattered I leave beside you
So shattered I break inside you 
So torn to be reborn without you

We mourn the morning of our scorn
Pressing it into the palms of our hands
Pushing deeper this belly ache of rotten thoughts and perceptions
Those secret discretions buried clear in our deceptions and flatlined intentions
We have lived this life we give with smoldered chances rendered
Not a moment to spare for the tired or mentored
Guided by the guilty jilted mistakes of our indiscretions
Our hands are bathed in the blood of our love 
It takes every ounce of me not to give in to reminiscing of missing what we're dismissing
We're lost searching with no profound calling to take hold of our hands and lead us into the light
just speechless apparitions given into desperations of heartache and failure 
seeking a savior to release this pressure building inside the beating of our entwined hearts
Subtitled "After thirty days of night we'll watch the sun rise together and burn to ashes in each others arms"
Taylor Marion Nov 2014
Father, I have sinned.
Ive compelled myself a mate and painted my body gold, pure and metallic and let him hang me around his lacey neck like a chained noose.

Father, i have sinned.
Ive disappointed my appointments and made allies with my enemies. Ive lied to get to where i am and i stand legless because of it.

Father, i have sinned.
Ive cut open skin and got drunk from the blood, letting it trickle down my breast, wearing it like a jacket, using it tirelessly to keep me warm during my winter

Father, i have sinned.
I scripted cursively with my left hand and pointed accusingly with my right. Ive fought like a thinker and forfeit my heart.
Father i have sinned,
I loved without thought.
I have slept in my ***** sheets and bathed in my discretions, Father, this bed is not big enough for our overexhausted lessons.

Father, please forgive me
for i have sinned in spite of the sun. Ive predicted light for the losing side and because of that,
i've won a temporary victory.
Ending with, not surprisingly, my mother clawing me senseless,
her knuckles blistering my jabbing jaw.
She said, "I never thought id see a side to you much darker than i ever saw."
Now she looks to me much older, decrepit and disgusted, and i look to her a doppelganger of the man that left her faithless.

Father, i have sinned and unwittingly beg for your conviction. But your faith is what left my mother living breathlessly without a face. A face hauntingly well known. but if i keep on keeping on this sinning, a face just like yours ill own.
Rebecca Gismondi Sep 2015
like the

Rialto, the Grand Canal flows underneath me.
Even as I hold my back

in my hands, I can no longer support my discretions.
Sixteen.
Twenty-one.
Thirty-three.
How

did I have the space?
You would think it would be engraved across my pelvis:
“wrap it up”
before you
hold me down

I ran with lit matches as a girl,
waiting until the flame kissed my thumb and forefingers
puckered pink under the surface.
I enjoy the boils left

behind by my recklessness:
every bruise from a fence **** and
every pebble-sized bump from my head
hitting the roof of a Camaro
sat underneath my skin,
just like Lil’ A
       B
       C
and I can lie flat
as the canal rushes over.
Hariharan S Dec 2015
Dogs smell tyres.
Chew on bones.
*** on tyres.
Get shooed away by stones.

Life menstruates.
Much too feminine.
Too much to cry about.
Too much pain.

The smaller you want.
The bigger you get.
The bigger you expect.
Nothing you get.

Years pass by.
Numbers keep rising.
The loop of trust diminishes.
Sitting by a fountain.

Chase a butterfly.
Wait till it sits.
Hold it within your palm.
Hold it till it fits.

Life ***** around.
Too much stink.
Too much to wash about.
You dwell in the stink.

Listen to big hearts.
Believe in small minds.
Trust in what you want to.
Life still grinds.

Fight gravity.
Stay up till you fall.
Right after you fall.
Don’t believe in gravity at all.

Gauge equations.
Evaluate situations.
Fatigue creeps in.
Your mind; and its discretions.

Love till you die.
Die till you love.
It’s all unfair.
Unjust.
Love; and it expectations.
Tony Scallo Dec 2014
Face are ambiguous
It's not too hard explaining this
But there is no real face that fits an objective depression

Let it be a lesson
Not to judge others by their discretions
Silence can be the embodiment for the saddest people of them all

People big and people small
That minds that stand and the ones that fall
We can all relate to the pains of the others around us

Yet remain so soundless
Never finding commons grounds and,
Becoming trapped in a cycle of solitude
How could we be so rude?
When there are millions of others who suffer the same sorrows as our own

Maybe not full blown
But at least enough to be known
That there is someone out there who relates to our pain

Cause it's a stain in our brains
That makes us think we're insane
We must open up to others
And not lead lives that are mundane

Everyone carries with them, a face of depression
So let it be a lesson
That there's no objective face to depression
Face are ambiguous
It's not too hard explaining this
But there is no face that fits an objective depression

So let it be a lesson
Not to judge based on impressions
Smiles help hide the saddest souls of all

People big and small
With minds that stand and ones that fall
We can all somehow relate to the pains of the others around us

But yet remain so soundless
Never finding commons grounds and
Becoming trapped in our own cycle of solitude

How could we be so rude
When there are millions of others who suffer the same sorrows as our own

Maybe not full blown
But at least enough to be known
That there are actually others who can relate to your pain

Sorrows may stain our brains
Sometimes making us think we're insane
But we must open up to others
And refrain from being abstain

Everyone carries with them, a face of depression
So let it be a lesson
That there's no objective face to depression
Anna Lo Apr 2014
Melancholia
is not mine
but a fruit that I chew upon
slowly at first
nippling the bud at the tip
******* the juice from the tip
baby,

just
a little bite
creating trenches
in skin, tiny crooked marks,
the footprints of the biter,
the mark of treasure hidden.

And you look so tangerine sour,
baby, doesn't matter
it's a dream of my own
mine only
and i'll watch as
salvia lingers off your skin
slathering upon the constellations on that that is lanky and pure
and the hairy forestation of your past discretions
stretching wide from fingertip to fingertop

see x marks the spot
that bitemark there--
is the foible my strength.
bootlegged and stolen through
a many tear ago.
just hoping to find
moon craters and lagan lollies
once again.
A Oct 2014
No;
It's not the rhythmic thuds of a headboard,
Nor squeaks of well christened springs,
Sighing the night's discretions.

It's the strained veins glazed over red eyes
Seeing the clock strike 4 am.
Flushed in a solitary blue.
KLR Oct 2011
past discretions
have led us to present dysfunction
we built the foundation
but somehow lack of communication
nursed me down the stairs and i fell deep
(emotionally and literally).

you're stuck in limbo
between my heart and your hands
if you could only grab hold of what is yours
hold tight
we could both survive.

surgically connect the unconnected
and correct what's been infected
the pain in your voice will simultaneously seal
heal and re-open
the wound i've dug in your mind.

i still have your skin under my nails
do you remember what life was like before
everything you didn't want to hear was voiced?
before i won your heart
then crushed it with lust and regret?

i bought you a rose garden
full of hope, kind wishes, i'm sorries,
and love.
i'll prune every bud until my soul
bleeds and washes it all away.
wordvango Apr 2015
the fusion the beginning
   puzzling in contradictory riddles,
driven down by exploding mixes
    spinning around a crank cracked
I enhance discreet
   discretions
into sinus rhythm abstractions
   modulate with distracting
conflagrating syllables
   a valued treasure, a heart beat
away from
   being out of fuel.
Lisa Chaniwa Mar 2014
His soul is the perfect place i dwell in when the world is a disgrace to face!
He is the beauty in my eyes and i a humble beholder.
when i feel old,grey and tired i seek his sturdy shoulder
to cry on and exude my lonely discretions but he fulfills my satisfactions
with more than a thank you please ,I love you my wife!
he is a part of me, embossed into what I call my life!
he is the apple i see beyond ,further than a distance in my eye.
I cannot picture a happier moment than that spent in his arms,
the patterns his fingers make on my skin make me whole within,
He is the humble prince among boastful kings, a silent gentle angel
that prompts me in.
He is a passionate lover,a giver of my all.
He is Tinotenda(Thankful) the blessing I behold.
It's like two people , lovers from the previous night that see one another the following day , a bit embarrassed , unsure if love or animal attraction exist between the two or heating a glass tube ,-building the facilitator for a hit of ice or two hidden from view , in a empty pack of Marlboros , people are more than aware of your "secret" discretions so why doodle , writing lines in sand that are erased at high tide , sending secret , sweet notes to the apple of your eye , building bridges for all to cross or lone tree on a island that nobody knows , creating fields of fire without a battle , stroking the ego of tyrants that don't really matter ?
Copyright  September 15 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
LACS Jun 2012
A new perspective.

                                    In memories
                                    In the now
                                    They are old
                                    They are new
                                    They are wrought.

A budding relationship,  
                                               with it's frailties.
A friendship falling,
                                        lies pervading through.

A mother and her grown daughter,
                                                       ­             both feeling trapped.

Being nervous and excited.
Being irrational and righteous.
Being torn and depleted.

I have grown from this.
I have been burned and healed.
I have cried as have you.

I let your eager hands meet flesh.
I let your desertion make me strong.

                                                But

I will not let you go from this betrayal,
I will not let you explain these discretions away.
CApo 2nd
3pluck
G= 4 - 2 - 0
d=------------ 2
Arcassin B Aug 2017
By Arcassin Burnham


Stepping through some cemeteries,
Lost your soul In February,
Looking for attention in a school where the kids make babies,
never married,
Closed eyes will be starry,
riding open waves are scary,
fall into the current , drown all your emotions,
its way more than death can carry,
friends are snitches , mercenaries,
backstabbing you in secrecy,
Even to you when your married,
cause what you and your wife have . he feels jealousy,
separate the real from peasants,
No time for argumental dispositions,
guess we're on a mission,
no further discretions,
Everyone ain't your friend , learn your lesson,

Friends do what their friends do and their intentions
is to hurt you,
hit you where it hurts the most then walk around while they
disgrace you,
people get in on to be cool or their scared, one of the two,
Got you thinking that suicides the only way to commute,
In other words i was a victim too,
hopelessly suicidal, with no further guidance from a parent too,
i swear i could relate to you, your not alone,
scared to talk , scared to go home,
There shouldn't be any **** reason for why you should handle this on your own.
©abpoetry2017
https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2017/08/far-from-friend.html
TreadingWater Mar 2017
Muse;
~ if you only knew ~
how. long. it's.        been
since i
even/had/the
heart
[to care]
beenin&  out
》shallow》in _ discretions
motions  w/ no | e | motion
meaning^^less
in-their-vanity
& here. you. are. _
reminding me
what this 'beat''ing' is even
For.
& for the first time
{in so long}
i want.
MorE
Kathryn Irene Oct 2018
Tugging at the empty void,
In hoping there might be something else
Something more to call your own
You keep your eyes open,
As if the more you look the more you see

But the more you see,
All you see is darkness
Your failures and incorrect fragmentations

Oh woe with me,
these scars run oh so deep
What hope is there for me?

Perhaps I can call someone "friend"
hold their hand and
have my first kiss

I dream, I dream, I dream
I dream of something more
Beyond the realm of truth

Tugged this way and that
I'll be stuck in my own discretions
My own damages, my own keys

A singular phrase breaks my wounded mind
As if someone actually cares
About what lies beneath this wickedness

Carry on,
Breathe
Smile.

Carry on,
Breathe
Smile.

and repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat

repeat.

Until the feelings I have lost
The warmth of your embrace
The hope I find once again
View more poems on my instagram
www.instagram.com/SkullsNB0nes
Samantha Symonds May 2018
I’ve been given my yellow ticket of leave. Freedom tastes like burnt coffee and soggy toast; I just can’t make breakfast the way the NHS and 10years in psychiatric medicine at Oxford teaches you to.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows The Housing. Even if they didn’t, the residents that arrive every few months and are gone after nights of screaming and wolf-howls give it away. These sounds will sing around suburbia until something stronger than insanity stops them. The pavements aren’t quite at peace and the buildings seem to sag in the satirical sun in shame. Even the streets just don’t seem quite sane. There are always the telltale signs. The closed curtains in the blazing heat on all the houses on only one side of the road. Or the grinning garden gnomes arranged in a straight line, crushing golden petals beneath their terracotta wellingtons (their smiles glisten like bear traps). Or the flash of a white coat in the sun, dissolving into crevices in the façade of identical houses, row after row.
I don’t think I was destined for dissolution row. But the same old story rears it’s ugly dead; been there, done that, found someone better. Her, not me. I always had an overactive imagination anyway. Like Tourette’s, but in my head. It’s all irrelevant now anyway, because I’ve been chosen.
On visiting The National Gallery of Google, I stumble upon Edvard Munch and absorb. Anxiety, love, death. The flowing figures restricted in brush strokes and paint, but free in immortality and fame, beguile me with their drooping, hooded eyes, until I can hear their delineated tongues like a choir.
Time to stop procrastinating, start prognosticating.

There is absolutely no doubt about it. The signs are clearer than a pool of melted diamonds. But no-one believes a person without a PHD in theology and a 2 foot beard.
The world is ending.
I tried to warn them again today, but they can’t see past insanity when they look at me; I seem to scream it in wild eyes, or perhaps the scent of crazy is leaking from my pores. Dark shadows around my eyes no extortionate amount of sleep or light could chase away. Once – before I’d gotten used to the insomnia – I took the razor to my head and freed the languid hairs; cleansing my own microcosmical globe of all irrelevant past discretions and pollutants. The human body usually purges the blood of most chemicals within 78 hours, but hair retains traces forever that will find you; bite you in the back. However, I still can’t sleep even though I should now be pure as a newborn baby and the chaos theory is thus disproved, and my ingenious-at-4am idea does nothing but further isolate me from any kind of credibility.
The world is still ending.
I can feel it in my bones, and taste it in my sweat. I may appear to be crazy, but under the surface I am still and so, so sane. The galactic metamorphism begins. A new seventh sense stirs within me. It takes a while to adjust but now I can see into the souls of anyone and everyone; I see their sins and their destinations. I can leave the house now, self–assured with a new burst of determination, laughing at all the five-sensed ****** without a clue. I will be the only one making the most of my final days. I walk along the pier, buy a six dollar ice-cream, and fill my hours with watching others. No-one stares anymore as if I am slowly fading into translucency. Those with evil deep-rooted are black, like coals waiting for a spark, any excuse to catalyse destruction and pain. ******, Stalin. Even without my monotone-rainbow sense it can be identified in the coldness of their pupils; their glassy exteriors. They will turn to the coal they are inside, literally, fuel hell and wish they’d listened to my warnings. The heroes of the world are white, pure white, but there aren’t very many of them. Most people are a ***** shade of grey. In between and undecided; neither here nor there. Purgatory. I am green, because I am sick. No-one cares where I’m going. I don’t care.
There isn’t long left now.
With life in black and white the sky becomes awash with colour. Shepherd’s delight tonight, and what a perfect night to die. The clouds are pink, painted coarsely over a glowing red azure sky. It makes sense to me. Finally, I am not alien, I am not in the dark, confused, alone. Instead, it is everyone else without foresight. They are isolated together, and I am solitarily integrated. I am told to go back to the pier, say goodbye, and watch the world literally, actually, flash by my eyes. It’s my gift, my reward for my broken brain; I am at the theatre and the only one with dramatic empathy for the characters led by convention. I float down the pier, and now I know I’m not mad. The sky pulsates, angry, vengeful. Particles expand, shrink, and re-inflate.  I can’t help but laugh at the beautiful hopelessness, and the ultimate despair. A song of delight, true, genuine, hilarity explodes out of me and spills into the thickening atmosphere. Two blacks, glare with their telescopic eyes, old me would’ve ran, hidden, driven by fear, but for the first time ever, all humankind is equal. Money and power, the drivers of society are null. Soon I know the men will turn to ash and blow away.
Mid-laugh, the sea swells, becomes beast, and swallows us whole.
Vernarth's term overage was not exhaustive, as Vernarth would return to Alikantus after his journey to Kanthillana for the Winter Solstice and Patmos in spring. He was collecting each time in the decantation of each corollary of texts, images, narrations, and epigraphs that were being deliberately written on the flames of the Apokálypsis. All the experiences of the tragic characters in Vernarth were embedded in the papyrological Datum once it was detached from the Dragon's snout. This result and action verse became the reconstruction of the cessation of a physical body, whose final living objective was to legitimize everything in which it was uniting in the nomenclature of written prosopography, advanced in all the roles of the ruler of their own history. parapsychological incorporated in its own self-analysis until reaching Everism that reconciles its mythology as something secondary to the Tragedy for all societies that evolve in a focused technocratic aspect and the rhetorical unsaying of attacking the world that was destroyed under a redoubled dose of anesthesia of the disgruntled ideological of being judged by the entire world as a being spawned in the papyrology of Pergamon in ruins. The visibility of him as an actor drags her with the vision of him asleep under hypnosis that allows him to combine the periods of antiquity more than six thousand years ago. C. allowing him to build a person from low to high visibility in a consequence where totalitarianism was exclusive to a millenary East, in pursuit of a nascent South America suffering from the birth of itself from the geological split 120 or 150 million years ago that did not they would be enough to bring about the consequences of Spílaiaus when he allows, hears and tells me to give him the world that only he had been chosen to live in.

Vernarth welcomes and obeys his command to divide N times as a normal body could run and fall into this current maelstrom that would take him throughout Greece, Judea, Central, and Eastern Europe, from a place of origin called Kanthillana which resists the intermodal phenomenon of quantum that would overwhelm him to the point where his entire genealogy would follow him wherever he went if need be. All this was mending and composing itself in those alternating impurities of some paradigm, reinstating the constitution of the random present of Greek mythology already alive in the blood that unites the same rivers that are born of a narrator, always disposed of in the eminence of inspiration either in Olympos, Profitis, Ophel, Kantillana or any tomb that constitutes the format of electric actual mobility where it distills rapidly at the speed of emotions that will always be directed by gods who feel it before they are received by a distant reader. The elaboration design of the works is spaced from the hand of the argument that sometimes tries to hold on to the runaway reins since they are commanded by real emotions provided by unknown forces, generating a great collision and incomprehensible data header for an eye or ear human that needs the neat pause to attend to the discretions that are intertwined and accelerate with solidified sources of extemporaneous mythology diverging from prosopography components of Literature Heritages Sites.

The chattering of the monuments will be of great superiority as an addition to the compiled history never told or narrated where it intertwines with two dissimilar, dissonant geographical zones, distant in such a way that they themselves react to a thunder of life, which makes up those zones that are individualized and inanimate as sources of multidimensional fervor, causing high-sounding narrative imbalances that at times were made as a great source of the power of what makes sense or what could mean at times that could continue progressing in the potential wealth of beings that were never geographically rooted in a system of use or group accent that could be immersed in the biography of that which has never been told, since there is no record. The information that is unknown could not be collected as well as a concept that survives the networks of a shipwreck of the passing of the centuries that run between even and odd centuries of today in the antiquity of the Middle Ages, however, all this traceability leaves us in micro spaces that are not perceptible, nor in the incorporation of chronicles that can be driven by the linear ordering method. Vernarth is in itself a precipitous advance, a quantum of dissimilar interests of civilizations that survive and will survive from where they were forged, perhaps integrating the second face of a life that manages to detach itself from the vital circle, to experiment with its canceled free will and redirect its life. revived canons of a new nuance that concelebrates within the face of an unknown character of prosopography; to the same one who imposes the laws of everything he should for each own individual having the opportune world of him that receives him lavishly.

After the seventh century, the phenomena of the Mediterranean between what simply promotes a turn of the page leaves the hemisphere of each empire more distant from the social phenomena that distinguish us once the stumble of generations cannot count what is not could mend in the subsequent generation. This is why Vernarth's hybrid containing allows you to travel between immemorial times, allowing you to store them and tolerate periods that do not fit the scale of all their wills deployed towards an administration that manages to revitalize their monuments and ally them with other geographical areas that could not strictly speak of the same contemporary, having taken more advantage of them. Such efforts would make a great providence and closeness of all the garments that represented suitable characters who are still looking in their wasteland for the true chronological process that should fit their conditions. Vernarth is a great enlargement of prosopography that he has or ambitions excessively, and that may heavenly tempt him to build vaults that can fit the figure of himself equivalent, of the libertine whims that could stipulate the crosses of the early and late periods, eager and differentiated for everything that could fit in a bunch of flowers like a bunch of verses that would be destined for the available that waits to be presented from the incorrupt mound of Olympus with the chain of being repeatedly presented in the Kanthillana before the god Spilaiaus.

The tool will allow the reconstruction of each elapsed period of time, which is exactly what the submithology intends, to return to live with the villagers who tend to trace their lines of traditions, customs, and much-needed etymology to revive the peripheral description where some manage to to be protagonists, leaving aside those who should be participants in silent actors that intends to expand the euphemism that is only revived in the courts of the emperor that is not even established in an ironclad draconian family monograph, as could be seen with the vast majority of the descendants of the Merovingians. The portrait tends to allocate budgets from the treasury of who should be the budget of the vast majority of true Labrador Hoplites as true ascendants of the great hidden treasure that will provide the eloquent looks of Medousa. This is how much of the vindication of cinnabar must have been established as a burial of many individuals from the Middle Ages in the vast majority of Europe to daub the bodies in sulfur or Cinnabar to try to keep them in the underworld with their entire body in linen shrouds or substitutes, and how to preserve or how to return to an organic chemical environment from which was the union of two beings when they engendered a being by the chemical explosion of a body in the autonomous cycle of procreation. Linguistic guidelines will undoubtedly make the entire Middle Ages the creation of a symbol of faith entrenched in unionized social spheres, made up of guilds of families that were never registered in a regime or corporation to supplement the lack of the Datum that in this work is It aims to decorate, uniting all classes, latitudes, and sectors that could well deserve complete the spaces that should have been executed by intercontinental clans, offering them a history that is part of their emblematic ancestor.

I would dare to name the Hoplithography, as the archaeological social fabric forging the question that establishes the Hoplites as sowing cultures of the significance of their prosopon of military body, contemplating further than all the nations of a way of life that probably would have been perhaps univocal to a pious being of the science that surrounds him, with the loneliness of a being that does not admit that he is overcome by science that submits to autonomous man such as Diogenes of Sinope or Archimedes who join an axial connection in the evidence of the senses, but in the Solstice of Sinope 412 a. C. specifically in the efforts of Vernarth to make them participate that the free man belonged to a Don who was more removed from his gaps of mistakes or successes since the free man was going to be imprisoned in the urn that joins him to his body and not to the illusion of your senses. The gates of truth or otherwise are just a few steps away from this Vernarth Tragedy that asks for a little hint of space-time movement. All the paradoxes that linear time will persevere in great calculation errors that could be an Aporia as speculative logic, followed by the fiction that exceeds reality where the paradoxes will be unresolved inconsistencies, essentially with what untimely arises from an indication of life in a common being that is related to quantum mutes as exhibited by the explosive Parapsychology or "Paraps" that are subdivided from the different scenarios of Aporías or enclaves of logic that are conjugated with the non-existent reality, given to the mechanics of Submythology of heroes, gods, and others coming back to life in a passage of time that is not explained in some expired history book that had more to tell than what its own ruins hid from the truth that could be told. This is a wealth of objectives that this Thesis proposes, to discover in the immensity of the unknown what was and could never be told, and that the past genetically survives in varieties of classes of organic species that continue to be assembled by worlds that tend to clear and rethink what any storyteller, philosopher, historian or archaeologist can interpret.

Physics is made of a servile space or instrument of the paradox, in such a way that the events point to reopen doors that are of the unknown History that could be part of a god that did not exist until the shelves documented him as part of a living culture associating it with its patterns of daily life, politics and the chores of common human life. It would be like the Arrow of Flight with Achilles, perhaps leaving a great inheritance to Alexander the Great in the dichotomy of how it would be Zefian by instituting the balance of the world with the geodesy of the world of Vernarth, not alluding in between the time that dictates it for its governance, but rather the cosmic heart that allows guessing where the thoughts will be directed more than the elliptical of ascent, and descent how far the arrow will arrive because even so whoever finds it will be of the mental times that elapse in different fractions as it is Parapsychology not moving, but more than the time that only moves where it is not or rests to give primary indications of intelligence in which thought must establish the concrete fact that everything takes place in its elliptical, but not in dissociated thought. Perhaps the singularity of this polished rule could show that this Paradox of Zeno that everything that exists could outline that the line that divides Achilles from Alexander the Great is the elliptical of thought because in the rhetoric of parapsychology there are no contradictions if it is that in the Dimension of Hellenic History find in it a distant today that communicates with this faction of the dimensional medium. The infinitesimal calculations of the Duoverse aim to link or reconcile what is being advanced in parallel in the mechanics of neuroscience, without the need to have practical scientific vestiges to determine what inhabits the intersection of a circle of quantum with respect to another that it occupies, a classic example of Vernarth when carrying out the flashing Kenósis of his Kli or Vessel that reunites his independent non-parallel lifelines, but that of belonging to a Hellenic trunk with the mathematics that exceeds infinitesimal numbers moving all the lamps of the Universe when both demi-gods walked through the relevant infinity.

Vernarth is a paradox that begins with the analysis of his initial "V" of Lacedaemon with the intention of traveling in supposed time, more remotely than a word can be subordinated to what could reconstruct an infinite regress, which is what will happen with the Apokálypsis in question where he is the threshold section of analysis of the genesis of this work in the Kanthillana, then with the reissue of the Medico in Piacenza by recognizing the constitution of the area that is more than what any specialist can understand; that is, much further from any speculative stealth before Vernarth or after that other prototypes could arise that are indirectly related to the concretion or invisibility of Non-Visible characters, but with the arrival of the submithology genre, its structure will generate conciliatory physical fields of what that he could never refer to or know if a beginning began when the end of the prototype of an invisible being was just being gestated. Perhaps the genesis of the world is a great paradox that was looking for the beginning of the end that manages to meet with a definitive beginning allied to that of an indivisible that indefinitely and infinitely creates micro spaces where time has no place, only physics links that overlap quantumly and represent the truth of purpose.
The argument goes beyond the linear narration that tends to describe who was or was, supplanting it in that of who will be and will be whenever the bonds of a timeless continuous reality remain in all assumptions. Here it is clear the axiom of the infinity of divisibility that is predisposed by an objective to achieve an unforeseen event that is forceful as much as it is likely to plan, from the Duoverse and its composition of everything including all the magnitudes and tendencies to his feet what will add up and will be charged with what has not been built or discovered making this hypothesis of the conceptual that displaces the historical because the conceptual occurred and occurred in outdated times not altering its objective since parapsychology in its infinity of regression will annex him in every Greek, Hebrew and Western dimension and latitude in an ancient world that will always be composed of addends that incorporate it into the Vernarthian World that in turn dares to challenge that the importance of the world of emotions are not part of the study of this Thesis of Literary Heritages Sites, as an infinite potential to achieve when the Apokalypsis is definitely triggered, prior to the ascension of the Vernarth when it leaves the Megaron and its living vibrating magnetic body. The regimes are not egalitarian with the fall of the determined slave democracy of 404 a. C. It could perfectly have been ruled, making the political destinies of an entire nation that is subjugated to attract and implement political and economic experience unclear, that those who would never be sustained by a regime determined by the inclusion of quantum paradoxes would be migrated more than any political-administrative order, which never led to the development of a new dawn of science of the infinite regressions of Parapsychology that unites everything multidimensionally.

The best choice is the equivalent of Prosopography, which results from an anomaly to the rule where Vernarth's Mythology regulates the organization of prosopography, claiming to demonstrate that there are gods who intercommunicate like Spilaiaus with Zeus, claiming to establish that what is going to happen is what that he wanted for his regency the prolongation of one mythology towards another, but without it being written but "Live" this is a postulate that Submythology proposes, substituting all the method rather experimenting for the superimposition of everything to the lesson of everything that is interconnected, although maintaining the univocal root that represents all the structural, cultural, historical and sociological components that intervene at times as an entity belonging to a reality of legends that border on the reality that must be preserved vividly. The compilation lists of Greek mythology is the product of enormous processes of years that have been developed in their territorial regions, a cultural union since Christianity displaced paganism from the year 391 AD. C. tormenting virgins and nascent creeds from a multi-paganism step that was based on the diversity of their daily lives to a universal expression that surpassed all excessive freedom or nullified free will that contended with the delicate slave democracy or dissuasive militarism based on the Oracles, who never had a real interpretation of what originated from a real god or nature that governed itself, rather than a god that questioned others that only individualized their own dramas to represent them to a god that pro-tradition that he freed them or condemned them to live at the expense of a Dramatis Personae. Here is the prosopography that with the well-formulated passage and sense of defining that the Ardors of the Drama make sense of being systematized from the gods of Olympus, but also in social stratifications in part to the worldview of their own ancestors to be the most faithful interpretive of the wealth that makes up the source that structures those of us who are not destined to be deities, but if we could exist before them with a recognized pattern in average reports that could be placed when Vernarth leaves the confused division of a body that will remain in the Iridescent Hydor of the Mashiaj or when the prophetic appearance of his Mother Luccica is sustained by such a portion of a physical world, rather totally petrified before the hecatomb or end of the world, generating in her a stony and inanimate being, but if sufficiently existing to define her new role in the universe "Ab Initio" of a general objective of uniting eternity of the competo of existing of unifying the geomorphological latitudes of mythological existence with other unknown vertical cultures (Submitology) and hypothetically pool the experience of the elements of the universe as a whole to empower roles among themselves. Then unify everything that can be narrated as an imminent truth to lavish it on those who could not exist at the same time, but rather describe it with the quantum channel, as it is here that Vernarth remains conjugated to his literature, history, theory, and quality of his speech. focused on a fully portrayed and defined system of Patio V of Hellenika as the Fifth Dimension as comparisons that are rationalized with space-time, geographic-chronology submerged in a theme of Political History as the axis of states that exert social change for numerous characters who recently there they come to life, as is the case of the new stage of Zacchaeus and the Sycomoro or Saint John the Evangelist in the Hegira to Judah provided by Vernarth to rediscover its roots, and reduce what could have been but the journey of Judah if there had not been ended in a conclusive in Jaffa where the metaphor that returned to Limassol would exceed the metaphor of Rhodes as an intermediate point that perhaps nu It could never have ended.
The interrelation of conceptions is due to a Primogen of the sixth dimension that was established as it was in Izzana with the Unicorns or Uilef that carried them to Genoa, or of the Giant Camels that were transfigured in Jaffa when the Ghosts of Shiraz had an impartial interference in the successful sea off the eastern sea. The relationships of the primogeniture allow a timeless mobilization led by Eurydice as a living figurehead that structures her Orphic proselytism, further than a conventual desire to compensate for all the unfocused in the elite and the outcome in the Profitis Ilias as the maximum height of reception. Trinitarian back with the ecstasy of Saint John the Apostle as the mobile center of the Hexagonal Primogeniture, the similar inspiration of living images of Ein Karem and its shepherds.

The Birthright is a family that composes them in their faith that guides them by themselves, whose goals are primarily directed by their sacramentals from the first to the seventh Giga Camel. In the imaginary and cultural reference that is delimited by its monotheistic ideology, acquired from a Hebraic-Hellenic scientific connection, whose postulates will survive the unusual phenomenon from generation to generation, but rather infinite inter regressions that could sometimes revolutionize the entire creation from scratch interpolated by an alpha, being the same for its intended end. Behold, the crossover element of this theme alludes to objects, events, or phenomena such as the reopening of the Kassotides as a central element from which the hypothetical support of all faith could be shipwrecked, if it is put at risk of re-raising culture to save the fate of the world at risk from climate change. If two sages met in limits without knowing Schopenhauer or Nietzsche with the relevance of ideologies that would offer more factors, expanding both systems or theories as alternative areas to think free from humanism or intellectualism that somehow reveals itself at the end of the times reconciling all time of action subsequent to his potential periods, more than his written legacies because his potential lies in his social prototype more than his work, given that his virtuosity is deeply rooted as an atheist believer, more separated from any intellectual root of wisdom What if it denotes the non-existence of a Pagan or Divine Enlightened God, what would provoke the indirect means that persists of calling a society whether or not it was a believer? In the specific case of Vernarth, his entire biography revolves around a Supreme Being who appears before him as a god of mythology, and who then takes him to the portal of Saint John the Evangelist as a being of compassion who alternates with him to embrace him and your arms. Everything there is that allows to treasure, store, or interrelate in different social strata uses the divine work that a character that sheds light that can even give more brightness than any star that can be demonstrated in a written work as an essential starting base reliability of an author who is inspired, and is not inspired.

Submithology also replaces prosopography, to say the least, that unites in general circles that cease to be physical until the ethereal limen that converts them into micro translation spaces such as quantum, in the same reciprocity of a point A-B and B-A and vice versa as it stipulates the connectivity of what exalts thought, and its inheritance when rising to the point that would be the “Intellectual Heaven”. Vernarth in the present time of any researcher could attribute that it will depart from the Iridescent Hydor photo-duct by seven channelings of the spectrum of the refracting luminaire but of the concomitance of the observable Vernarth, or rather of what little remains to be able to observe of man after leaving It is sighted by the masks that caustically protect or envelop it as a waste of what is not attributable to a Politai, having conditions of dense interests of a destiny that will never be recognized or belong to it. It is because of this reluctance that the proposal of free will offers greater perspectives in a series of misunderstandings such as Empowering two famous atheists like Nietzsche or Schopenhauer at the service of believers who would never object to the full range of possibilities that they could implement from scratch, to convert a Christian who is like himself to a convert who will purge and reverse all his permissible externally in the farthest destinies that allow him to ascend in freedom of annulled will, not only on the earth with one more differentiated, but as a tender being who saves the world so that the world does not forget him. This thesis offers the man who has been bastardized or discriminated from a social marginal depriving him of alternating with nobles or well-to-do who circulate under the same roof of half humanity that allows the common man to dispense with all humanist beliefs, opposition, syncretic, etc. .) To detach from all vanity that is limited in the abandonment of any of it progressing with all creation that if it is when every living organism ceases to be on Patmos.

The Patmos reef may contain inventories, archives, demographic indexes, religious spheres, congregations as repertoires of those that will form when an external being arrives to build a society that imposes its character of contribution to society, and tends to adapt to particular aspects that the that they will be until today on the island itself, in itself demanding the leadership of an elite of the Passional of Iahvé through Saint John the Apostle in conception of qualifying him with the great stratified of the species that compromises in the optics of converting his followers, as an essay of an illusion made real ad honorum of a residual fragmentary that does little to unify the eras in which the rich and poor will be relatives not because of their genealogy, but because what the poor lead of the other to save him from an end that has another handle of his heraldry and portraits of his game that is deactivated in the collective imagination of all his progeny highlighted as a representative of mutations of numer dark ales, where nothing will be recorded only in this untrammeled probability of granting a life that resides in everything that cannot be seen or named, that transgresses all sources of prosopography as something deductive in this case Deus Ex Machina; as will be embodied in the final tableau of Vernarth's Trilogy III "Like the god who will descend from the machine or in this case from Hydor to Vernarth to take him to Alikantus with his mended golden hooves"
To conclude where it remains to argue that it can attract us from the Intuition of being more than a human who can actually live more than what can be budgeted, without prejudice to common sense that is quiet and distant from the epilogue of this work when whoever looks at it and hold on to a legacy of Heritage Site Literature, and manage to embrace it so that its pulse can be felt in each character it is in, and in each episode of a post-classical story. The derivations of a critical analysis of psychological Vernarth is greatly affected by an independent reaction of a real regime to which his fellow Hoplite Soldier leads him to the event of Arbela in the great battle of Gaugamela, integrating himself into the analysis of a reality that did not belong to him due to because he came from another remote erudition, and was only recognized for defending common acts that reflect the awakening of a new seed of value and temperament of a whole baggage of anthroponymy that could fit in all the spontaneous civilizations that manage to transgress the barriers of time and normal space, here is Vernarth who manages to fit in the names that substantiate in others that revalues them, and could appear as a perfect leadership name to access a Helot, Hoplite or Politai housing space in the same way as It could be transmitted from a leader who, together with Wonthelimar, was able to cross the Pyrenees or the heights of Ida or Kanthillana. as a high descendant of the Arakynthos Mountains of Messolonghi destined for the Koumeterium of the same name where the genealogical table of Vernarth is carved together with his brother Etrestles, under the invisible courtesies of a man when he is condemned being born from here from the numb invincible spirit of the Heroes of the Independence of Greece 1830. Finally, in this penultimate episode that Vernarth qualifies the sense of not being affected by an oppressive cause as being influenced by supremacies of ideas, creeds, philosophies, or governmental order, rather by a divine general scientific exordium that is from where he manages to interpret when the Mashiach or Messiah, will take his hands to carry him to meet the Hydor and dwell in that place with Him. The archivist will have the possibility to investigate and study in situ the paranormal events referred to as mega parapsychology, This way he will allow his vast merciful heart to be a strategist to carry in his inventory everything s the petitions of the living who remain in the land of Greece to take them to those who remain in the land via Patmos. Vernarth from the 6th century AD. in search of his genealogy he can create a meritorious dignity of giving funeral rites to his ancestors, the long-standing family coat of arms became returnable to the Reign of Horcondising: Spílaiaus and Aiónius with the major gods who waited for him to reside in the entire fringe of the invisible beings that in eternity will take chronological charge of a revolving time that will recirculate from all that is not dimensioned like a spiral dragging all the empires that request the renovation of their ruins, and of their beings that cry out for the misuse of this world and new coverage of a new world of replacement; as Vernarth's Strategoi legacy through all the reigns between Justin I and Justinian I of the sixth century, since previously a large part of Vernarth's family was exiled to the South of Spain by the then Roman Empire from the north of Venice to the Mediterranean, from here he transfers all the families of his lineage with his Coat of Arms of Lacedaemon to protect them over the course of more than 700 years. In this way, a large part of those who had to protect the family raft that was protected by Vernarth in the revolt of Constantinople after signing peace with Persia. The Apoinandros preserved all his lineage along the paths of an enthronement ritual that protected the distinctions but also the families of the world in the Mediterranean regions, curiously where a large part of this Trilogy navigates the Triacontero Eurídice together with Vernarth as Strategoi of expeditionary forces in glorious parapsychologies of the Middle Ages moving periodically from south to north of all of Hispania, even alternating with Nordic and German elites, such as Greek-Hebrew nominating Vernarth as a dignitary that will be preserved in the coat of arms Strategikon that managed to be collaborated with the Emperors the century VI, attributing that some of the most robust could be part of the elites of the Roman legions as exclusive Praetorians. In this way, all the family trunk and his insignia were migrated from the north of Venice, then to Lombardy to be redirected to Spain later in the coming centuries to South America. The Strategikon has presented as relevant to the present elaboration thanks to its representativeness regarding the egregious existence, compilation, and hoarding of relevant technical information for the performance of the distinguished tasks of ex-military, being able to be verified with absolute certainty within its family traits with its existence, and continued use as a source of the great Taktika of Alexander the Great and Saint John the Apostle as Magister Militum.
Epilogues Trilogy III ( Excerpt)
Jenna Paige Sep 2017
Know that I'm not yours
no matter how many times I write your name on my hand
Know that I'm not yours
no matter how many times I see you and my heart explodes
Know that I'm not yours
because I must get over myself
I must get over you
I must drown my thoughts with gin and diet coke
and write my ****** poetry with the marks of our past discretions on my neck and in my soul
I'm supposed to be taking notes about boring books and SAT's but instead I write about you
Your crooked smile
Your red vans
that strut past me on the boardwalk
You skinny arm that waves at me
to break the glass of awkwardness that nothing ever happened
The wave is something else
It is cleansing
the hand attached to this arm washes away our past transgressions Know that I am not yours
Even though I bled for you
Licked it off your lips like I needed you
on the second hand couch
in my basement
Ayla Jul 2018
Gifted from birth, abandonment
conceptually and in actuality
bestowed at once a curse which lasts infinitely.
With it she has learned to cope, to even grow
for that life without it she can never know.
The language of loss her native tongue
she'll push the world away and cry that it's gone.
The question being, is it really her fault?
As she implodes on the aftermath
of karmic justice served cold
she catatonically awaits some kind of change
subconsciously taking comfort in the usual pain,
yet this time she won't be running away
to set up shelter in another's healthy home
only in due time to set the place ablaze.
No, that was never what she wanted,
not the first time, especially now.
She wants a solid and forever place to go,
for once to know of that place called home,
a place of her own.
No defence for dishonor,
not seeking dismissal for discretions
maybe misery is her home, as she withers into truth.
ihm
past discretions
burned-in sights
carnal pleasures
easy fights
you picked on me
cause you knew that i

would crumble beneath
your lightest touch
like teasing incessantly
and taking too much
my softest intentions
crumpled up
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
22 hours ago LOL! I'm not Asian at all though Asian cultures are so rich and beautiful, their mythology interesting and less convoluted (perhaps?) than Greco-Roman mythology. Norse mythology, though, is interesting as well though just as fickle. And Egyptian! Of course, that stems from the months that I spent reading too much Rick Riordan. Either way, race isn't relevant between us. You're British. I'm American, and definitely not a "bad" person. Plus, not all ****** encounters are worth a moan or a groan.

  11 minutes ago you know: every time i para (i new term i picked up from someone else's comment... para implying paraletic) i have to wonder: what was it that i wrote that wasn't on canvas that might haunt me the next day... but you did say you don't get suntans... i went out with this russian girl once... very tsarist and all who did think that having a suntan implied you being of lower class... lower rank... because the aristocracy were all feeble vampires that hid in chateaus and what not... not exactly screaming vitamin D! just an idea: if you don't get suntans... i presumed... well... perhaps: your skin just doesn't do the copper-serpent trick of trickling through down to auburn / whiskey when the sun has its play with it... unless raw-ish ginger and freckle by freckle: it doesn't matter... you porcelain would be lobster by the end of it... all peeling and... eczemic...but i always have his nagging sensation in the back of my brain like i'm somehow Tony Soprano the narrator having "second thoughts"... sentimentalist through and through... mythologies... you cited a few but it's not like you would cite the Slavic mythologies... then again... what's there to "cite"? Rick Riordan... never heard of him... too much time spent on Heidegger, Knausgaard and Dickens, lately... three books i'm reading simultaneously that i don't seem to "want" to finish since... a little bit of this, a little bit of that: my grandfather having died and me being close to him... blah blah... ponderings VII - XI, my struggle vol. 4 & the Pickwick papers... respectively aligned to the rubric of authors... you're right... race isn't relevant... but saying you don't get a suntan... or can't... sort of enforces me staging a bizarre comment like this... i didn't jump to the logical conclusion of why you don't suntan... you can't? or like i already cited this one Russian exclusivity of: only serfs and farmers have suntans... it's a lower class "thing": we chateau dwellers like ourselves... porcelain skinned... anaemic... you're absolutely right in confessing that race isn't important... antics with a black girl i will not summarise... the self-evident works of piston(s) and lubricant of oysters... but unless you've been living under a rock... what's with all this attack on "abstraction" regarding pronouns and grammar... in general? it's like being attacked on two fronts: it's like the shared invasion of Poland by Germany and the Soviet Union... i fall back on race because it's so... charismatic at times that it becomes unavoidable...  it's like detailing the exclusionary inheritance of a daffodil... or a giraffe... "race" wasn't important until the point of: people having other people telling them "what languge is appropriate" and "what language isn't appropriate"... come on... you're not wed-locked (whim-locked more like) to this pre-suppositional stigma of fearing the tag "bad": i hope you're glad to still allow yourself a tendency to sometimes denote yourself as: person... i recently filled out the census for stats... i was also recently applying for a job as a prison warden... race popped up: or how i'd identify... i had come to encounter a neu-begriff... being American you know of Italian-American compounds... the stereotypes... Irish-h'american... blah blah... British is such a joyous term... god forbid i'd "identify" as English... Anglo-Saxon... so i kept the prefix... Anglo... and attached... well... have a look: Anglo-Slav... i don't see how some people feed the etymological lie that there's somehow an "E" missing... of a collective of a people that competed with "your" tribe during the cold war... bogus points for me as being of a people fudge-packed between the two: of the most... inglorious ******* of events... hell... i sometimes wish i was Croat or one of those Balkan ******* juggled between Rome, Byzantine and the Ottomans... heritage... i best compose myself: last time a Muslim identified me as a ******* ***** at the Reagent Park mosque while selling me prayer matts i was like: i'll let it pass... perhaps i have a more pronounced occipital bone... but i agree: race is not important... let alone in how language is used... a zebra, being a horse... is not exactly stripe material... a leopard doesn't have dots... the tiger doesn't have stripes... they're all cats... how about the grammatical issues concerning: the big cats don't ******* meow? it's not like i was going to make a joke about cushion-*******-lips either... while chalk girls torture themselves with imitation botox: duck... ****'s sake... came the world of chalk and choccie and all the world's masochistic mantras hit a ******* high note for the castratos to sing about! race isn't important: but calling a square a square, an apple an apple... a tiger a tiger: somehow bloodily obvious, is... i can get with the project of abstracting man (woe... +man)... but when the attack comes within the confines of the asylum of ******* grammar & algebra?! what would i otherwise resort to? when i drink to excess & only have a canvas to work with... fine... but when i faced with someone directly: i became doubly drunk on conversation... i'm somehow assured of being race-baiting... like reimagining dragon chasing: down the steeps of "old"...h'america... which part? i always imagine myself living a life of fullest fulfilment living in one of those... fly-over states... in some ******* where i can become my truest taoist...beside the current tongue i've acquired.... the past tongue i want to: less than merely forget... i sometimes thought: bilingualism could be an advantage? isn't mandarin the vogue-"prose": these days? i'm glad, though... i was certainly drunk... but i spelled out the most fathomable discretions...here's to you: and (a) tomorrow!
Kurt Philip Behm Apr 2019
Discretions infinity,
  its number unknown

One window sufficient
  for its light to be shown

An exploding dynamic
  tumbling over itself

A singular beauty
  —in the distance unfelt

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2019)
Nolan Davis May 17
A voluntary isolation sentence
A cocoon of doubt to sew
Serving what I thought was penance
A pain from down below

Surrounded by the echo
It's words I can't ignore
All hope lost from the get go
The ending to settle the score

Repaying a debt of borrowed time
The tax for past discretions
An orphan to such a fatherless crime
I'm repeating these failed lessons

It's only now I can finally see
How sins of the past reflect upon me

— The End —