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Olive Sep 2010
Last night I had a beautiful dream,
Part fantasy, part reality, it did seem.
I wandered in a land that could have been heaven,
so many amazing things, it was on another level.

My bare feet glided, through grass wet with morning dew,
my soft finger tips brushed along leaves that grew,
from the branches of the tallest trees, that were many not few.
My senses were alive, with every touch and every smell,
coming from all the life that here did dwell.

Floating in the air was a sweet melodic tune,
that had my head in a trance too fast too soon.
It carried me along as if weightless above ground,
where would it take me, this enchanting sound?

Passing rippling ponds, and babbling brooks,
this ain't a place of thieves or crooks.
A magical wonderland, where only beauty lies
and there is no pain, no sadness, and no cries.

The path I travel is coming to an end,
around the last the corner, I come to a bend.
And just after that, there is a new sight,
shining so blue, and so bright.

In the air all around me, the oceans sweet scent mingles,
standing on end, every hair on my body tingles.
A new sensation beneath me, is the soft white sand,
another wonder of nature in this peaceful land.

The melody I hear now clearer than ever,
is coming from a sight I thought I would see never.
For there upon a rock nestled in the sea,
was the most beautiful picture that could ever be.

She has luscious locks of golden hair,
and a body beyond beauty, so sweet, so fair
from the top of her crown and all the way down,
She is delicious, delectable, and without frown.




My eyes are drawn to her lips, from them it comes,
The sweet melody I have chased , the one that she hums.
The notes turn to words, her head turns to me,
come closer she says, come into the sea.

I cannot stop now, I have no control.
I want her to feed me, my mind, body and soul.
I want her to touch me with the lightest of touch,
run her fingers through my hair, oh i want her so much.




As i near her habitual rock, the expression on my face, is of a small shock.
For as the tide falls, there's now a different sight,
on her lower body, she is wrapped so tight.
In an envelope of shiny scales, of an iridescent nature,
of the sea she was born, this mystical creature.

Was it wrong now that i wanted her even more?
to take in my arms and bring to the shore.
She reached out a hand touched me soft on my face,
i closed my eyes, entranced in this place.

Her fingers traced a line down my neck,
like a ship after a storm, i felt a wreck.
Now exploring with hands, like soft grains of sand,
blowing over deserts in distant lands.
She whispers in my ear, i want to kiss you my dear.

I open my eyes, and drink in her beauty,
our bodies come closer, breathing heavy duty.
She cups my face in her palms, positioned like clams
pushes her fingers through my hair, i am in now in her lair.

Our lips draws together, and like stormy weather,
all of a sudden the lightening strikes,
i can feel little bites,
on lips and my tongue electrifying shocks run.

My head is spinning, my body aching
with a feeling i have never had before,
of this creature, i want more and more.

Her bare ******* exposed, her ******* are stiff
with my hand i reach and give one a lift,
bring the flesh to my mouth, and my lips seal over
what mother mature has made, my new secret lover.

She moans, she groans, and from her mouth she sighs,
she loves every thing i do, i know by her cries.
I want to tease her and please her, in all manners of ways
for now, tomorrow and to the end of her days.

But she stops what i'm doing, and looks deep in my eyes,
a face full of sorrow, she's shedding tears that i dry.
Then she says to me, 'Alas this cannot be,
for you are a mortal and i was born of the sea,
i hate to say it, but there can be, no, you and me.
I am hurt and upset, by this tragedy

Again she looks in my eyes, and now there are smiles,
She says fear not, i have a solution,
I look at her curiously  in her world of ablution.

She speaks again, says remember this is a dream,
what is unreal, may be real to you, now it seems,
so when you awake it will all disappear,
and you will forget all the pleasure and pain you felt here,

But if ever you should want to become satisfied,
and release your inner mermaid, there's something you can try.
Close your eyes and believe, in my sweet lullaby
through this, you will be taken to me by and by.

And if this wonder never happens again,
it was the most beautiful time, in all my reign,
as the queen of the water here in this sea,
i have never met one as wonderful as thee,
and you will be in my heart, forever to be.

I awoke this morning with a smile on my face,
with a feeling i had come from from a magical place.
But the notion soon dispelled, because there was no trace,
of any of the sights that were vague on my mind,
i tried hard to remember, of this special time.

But alas it was not be, for it was a place of pure fantasy,
in my dreams forever will remain my mermaid and me.
R W N-S Jan 2014
Severely hyperactive mind
To keep up with a age of sensitive depressives
Or to morally go where no end is close

I

Allotted in lieu of this knowledge
Give it away

Every taste of bitter fruit of vine
Much of tender entanglement between you and I
And, so any enlightenment also blended - now dispelled

The magic is of Etymological contradictory
Reverent souls whom despicably chore over us
And the managers granting Death a pass without your consent

For freedom, for your freedom and the lives of lawve

Please be quiet, be sure to not awake the myth
Make sure you keep as far stretched as humanely as possible
Surely it'll turn accordion, to combat your intake of fresh air

The grips of mice are like mine

be where,
beware
&    
or
NO,
Know,
be in transition.
22-33-44-108-666-777-999-01123581321
1398

I have no Life but this—
To lead it here—
Nor any Death—but lest
Dispelled from there—

Nor tie to Earths to come—
Nor Action new—
Except through this extent—
The Realm of you—
Nite Feb 2015
Here I am standing outside the door
I look around the sea of faces
Hoping to catch a glimpse of the one I adore
My heart's beating like it had ran a million races

Crossing the threshold with trepidation
I made my way to an empty seat
Scanned the crowd again and sighed with resignation
Maybe I was too late I thought to myself as I slumped with defeat

Raised my hand to signal the waiter
That I would like a pint or several
Maybe drop a few bombs by the name of jaeger
And my heart nearly stopped when I saw that someone special

I caught her eye and she cracks into a smile
A smile that I've sorely missed
A smile that made my trip worthwhile
A smile that I could never resist

With our eyes still locked she weaves through the crowd
My heart beats faster as I kept her in my gaze
Thirsting for her touch as if I've been through a drought
She stops right in front of me and enfolds me in her warm embrace

I inhaled the scent of her
A scent that no one could ever replicate
A scent that could never be dispelled by any zephyr
A scent that I've missed for a decade

The night passed by in a flash
I remember the fleeting touches I made
Telling myself that she is really here in the flesh
Hoping that this feeling will never fade

Then a fight broke me out of my reverie
A fight borne out of an inebriated mind
A fight that gave me a chance to hold you like in a memory
A fight that we tried to unwind

I looked into her eyes, eyes that were full of feelings
Eyes that I could fall forever into helpless
Eyes that never fails to tug at my heartstrings
Eyes that has kept me up sleepless

She apologised for the fight between her sister and her boyfriend
Promised me that we'll meet again
With a last kiss she untangles her fingers from my hand
As she got into the cab I prayed that this night wasn't in vain

I hailed a cab and told the driver my destination
When I suddenly realised that due to my hesitation
I've forgotten to tell you three words that I hope you'll value
Which are I Miss You
Ray Phenicie Nov 2014
Stars, brilliant, yellow and white, they pierce the total black dome arching over the trees.
Campfires spew sparks, dragons fly and jump to meet the stars,
Miniature electric lights; a spritely accent around the RVs.
Night choristers, peeping, honking voices dispelled by dawn
Morning light creeps up
Dew
Dripped, rivulets ran down the side of the tent
Campfires, lit anew
Pancakes, sausage, oatmeal.
Noon
the heat of the sun bakes the ground, dew dispelled.
Ilia Talalai Nov 2013
Oh piteous duality of man
A mind that breathes a contented sigh at the beauty it once held
Is a heart that cries a lonely tear soaked in passion that cannot be dispelled

In this moment
I want for nothing but the warmth of her skin under my calloused hand
I burn for her in a cold bed with a heart singed by love’s fiery brand
Donald Guy Nov 2012
11:33pm @Boston_Police:
#occupyboston The BPD respects
your right to protest peacefully.
We ask for your ongoing cooperation.

@Occupy_Boston: 11:51
The BPD asks reporters to leave
the inside of the camp
they don't want them to record
and report on what they're about to do.

1:31
Cops give Occupy Boston
five minutes to vacate.
Nobody is leaving.

1:41 @OccupyBOS_Media:
The police are beating the Veterans for Peace

1:44 @Occupy_Boston:
Cops arresting everyone.
We are being beaten.
KEEP TAKING PHOTOS.

I walk there as my legs will cary me...

The Aftermath:
All quiet on the western curb
Over 100 arrested and spread amongst
more than five separate jails—none close by.
Camp two is gone and camp one intact. for now;
The ecstatic crowd, arms linked, chants
"Who do you protect? Who do you serve?""

Hyperbole all around.
Injustice or public safety?
...It hardly even matters.

The people are on the streets again
The military is overseas but
this time, the war is at home:

Men and women in blue,
likely just doing their jobs,
fighting people without them.
I fear the 99% fights itself

Rumors flit about. Crackdowns abound
Dallas, Atlanta, St.Louis, Seattle, &
San Francisco: from sea to writhing sea
The chickens have come home to roost and
The pigs are bringing home the bacon

The professionals were cleared out,
but the media wasn't. The talk is on
line by line, it is lively, ever-streaming:
blogs and tweets; statuses, state by state.

Rumors created. Rumors dispelled
Proof offered. Faith destroyed.
Anger engendered. Assumptions reinforced:
The people are connected
but the disconnect remains

Between rich and poor, yes, but maybe worse than that:
this movement is only as United as these states
The basic principles the same, the practice not so much
Peaceful, yet violent; Pro-capitalist, anti-corporate
"a laughable gang of disorganized, confused Nazis.  
an ill-disciplined, highly-trained, ****-smoking,
fascist organization."

First the Tea Party and now this,
Demonstrating the strength & flaws of Democracy
even as they protest the flaws of Republic
Still, they are not so different

They sit in parks by day and sleep at night
in dorms, apartments, houses, tents. Uncomfortable
Wrapped too tightly in sheets of red, white, and green.
Trying, desperately, to wake up from the American Dream

                                        ~D.B. Guy
                                         10.11.11
_Poems in Autumn_. #7 of 7 .
Nods to John Wieners' The Hotel Wently Poems & William Corbett's MIT course 21W.756 Writing and Reading Poems
I dispelled arduous watches tick on laborious appareled macrocosms scatter spitting patter, teeming paved labyrinths searching for something to own orbiting the bench I sit on, envisaging celestial bodies slinging transonic ripples. Ether colliding into clouds masking infinite galaxies from a suffering and crawling universe destined for a hole in the wall, where the rats live; nibble, scratch, deconstruct, and reconstruct, cannibalize, ****, and die.
         Does silence exist amongst the deucedly hot and dense state that incrementally dilutes vociferous dissonance illuming dynamic hurricanes, merciful gases, and asteroidal moats guarding engraved anthropomorphic landscapes?
Probably not; fauna whisper, tear down, and settle, birth exigent infants and zealous appraisals, ***** towers and castles; consciousness capitulates, inundates prisons, cemeteries, and landfills. Silence, in precipitous day dreaming, auspiciously reverberating webs espying arpeggios tomb the suburbs as one navigates in and out of trepidation to avoid being caught like a gnat, a quiet ******* bug with no cigarettes to burn.
The impact flung me from the bench in the commons toward dusk disguising 16 acres with streetlights and homeless asking for squares on the roads to spurs and oaks, scattered acorns crepitating under my soles. Each  compressing sound pulling like gravity, transporting down roads with bouncing winds, subtle aglow, guides from defiant contours of Gods in the clouds, dandelions erupting side walks like tectonic plates seismically tear apart earth, the fog’s mist like ships floating into suns swimming like tadpoles; air undulates as I wave my hands against the wind, molding the space as clay.
This city is mine, I tumultuously grow with it, and I mercurially oscillate with it as a memory inevitably plays. The past as a dream, is mine. The abstract present is mine, and the infinite future is not, yet they are given away for possession.
Inept graffiti cartographically stain bricks providing a simpler search for portals made perfect for laying like a crescent moon near their opening edge, watching dawn lift dust and my eyelids, glaring off windows building and kissing the satellite towers on roofs, waking the mountains in the horizon, painting the sky, one could give a **** about the past, present, and future, the beginning is just as imminent as venturing any further.
Embryonic sun rays mixing fluids and this coffee I nabbed to wake the day, having it enlighten the conversations one has with oneself; consisting of bellicose thoughts filtered, taboos accompanying bleating people, ubiquitous t-shirts, satirical newspapers, and indecorous magazines perpetually feeding me preliminarily eldritch reconnaissance as they dress into strangers.
It could be time for another cup of coffee and cigarette? Or am I just floating off into enigma over the road becoming a sea?
Gypsies contort into seagulls, shingles moving like tsunamis smashing down on metropolitan brick cities, Atlantis generation XYZ resting in an underwater valley, mountains sew gardens on the ocean’s bottom, signs buried, and I’m simply lifting back off into space.
Complaints will suffocate; I’ll be out of town, however, I will miss those whom drowned.
Good riddance.
“Hello,” a soft resonation shaking the atmosphere.
Resuscitation; back to reality…
“Hello”, the voice repeated, “Are you going to be alright?”
“Pardon, what happened?” I slurred.
“You just fell several stories and your head is missing. This is astonishing how you can hear me, how I can hear you, are you in any pain?”
“Um, I apologize, but I’m not really certain of what you are saying. My head is missing?”
“Yup, it detached from your atlas, when you hit the asphalt, what is the last thing you remember?”
“Having my head…well sort of, I remember staring at people on a bench in the commons it was kind of turning my stomach, making my head feel heavy, so I got up and walked. Explains the headaches and visuals, Where am I?”
“You’re in my basement. I could hear your voice when I found you, even with your head, well, skull missing.”
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
“I would have called an ambulance, but you told me not too, you wanted me to hear you, you kept insisting I hear your stories, so, I listened to your stories as I basically dragged you here. You would go in and out, talking then silent the next, and now you seem like you’re in at this moment; without a skull, your heads there.”
“Well…I can’t see you… or the basement… and I am not in any pain… How long has this been going on, why did you listen to my stories, and what did I say?”
“You know what you said.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the only one who listened.”
Jessamine Crise Oct 2012
There’s a broken bird in the red snow at sunset
Drenched in water and freezing fast at the hands
Of two red-blooded boys who laughed
At the feeble chirps of protest emitted from between
The little pink lips of a red-cheeked girl
Her blue mittens were matted with snow and flying fast
Hurling packed ***** of frozen water at the boys
Even as the sun disappeared behind their heads
And she was trapped in their shadow
She dispelled them in haste and in a spray of snow
They were gone leaving a broken bird and a sad little girl
She took the white scarf from around her neck and shivered
The bird chirped meekly as it was wrapped and carried
Mother’s sympathetic smile was not enough
Nor were father’s promises
The bird was put in a box outside to spend the night
As a storm raged outside she could not sleep
The empty box in the morning a ray of hope
Or a damnable void
She chose hope and washed her red-speckled scarf
And in the spring among the many-winged shadows
She searched for her bird certain he still flew
Steve Page Aug 2021
The wind, he said, is lost
laughter.
Breathe it in and glory
in the joy it brings
in the forgotten smiles
of another age
and make your home.

The wind, he said, is dispelled
tears.
Let it in and as it meets your eyes
it will cool and condense,
re-creating past sadness,
distilling until the salt stings
with ancient lost glories.
Lizzie Bevis Apr 24
The soft wind brings resurrection,
as seeds crack the Earth's waking shell,
and she shrugs off her pale complexion,
while spring's mystery is dispelled.

Cherry blossoms break their silence,
pink confetti pirouettes on the breeze.
After months of cold defiance,
new leaves grace once barren trees.

In murky ponds, frogspawn transforms,
and tadpoles emerge to the spring light.
The weather warms from winter storms,
as days bask in the sun's delight.

This is nature's revolution,
Death in reverse, life is reborn.
In April's retribution,
Faith is restored, and hope adorns all.

©️Lizzie Bevis
In the meantime in the Áullos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
Olivia Kent Apr 2015
In silence we sit.
Staring into each others eyes.
Piercing as rapiers.
Straight through to the other side.
Silently thinking inside our mothball filled heads.
Striking each other, with mental intuition Womanly wiles, coiled as snakes,
Swollen before shedding their skin.
Assassins in silence, diligently plotting next moves.
Coils of passion.
Stilettos fashion.
And you,
You waded into the waters of my mind wearing your bright yellow wellies and little else.
I laughed so much I almost cried.
One argument dispelled.
(c) Livvi
Raj Arumugam Nov 2011
Ah, you ask
what the origin is of the word pharaoh
Let me assure you first
such questions need to be asked
and you have come to the right person
for I am an antimologist
one specialized in the study of the origin of words

1
Let us consider....pharaoh...pharaoh...pharaoh...
Ah, I have it...the answer retrieved
from the safe confines and treasuries
in the deepest recesses of my mind....

The pharaoh
was so called
for these rulers were,
in spite of the scorching heat and unforgiving sun,
these rulers were always fair
and never became dark
and so that clears the mystery of the first half of pharaoh

2
And moreover, it is revealed in the papyri
and graffiti in the tombs
these Pharaohs could row -
even as Rulers these Pharaohs could row -
you know
row, row, row your boat
and they could row
the full length and breadth of the Nile

And thus from the 2 Divine attributes
of FAIR and ROW  
came the title: PHARAOH


3
But....but...but! you say
Ah, I know, I know - you are about to ask
why then is the word spelt as PHARAOH
and not as FAIRROW?
Ah, such questions you have this morning -
what are you on?
Too much sugar and candy floss last night?


Well, you are lucky as I’m not only an antimologist
but also an IsDorian
and so I shall dispel your doubts at once:
It’s simple - remember they were Ancient Egyptians
and these Ancient Egyptians did not know their English well
and so instead of the proper English FAIRROW
they gave us the mangled PHARAOH -
and let us not be too ******* them
as you also recall this was all in the infancy of human civilization
and we shall be graceful enough in our maturity to accept these errors,
for after all, these Ancient Egyptians were but as children
in the History of Human Motion

And I hope I have now dispelled your morning perturbations
as  I rowed you over
the rivers of knowledge of antimology, IsDory
and  the secret knowledge of FAIRROW and the PHARAOH
midnight prague Dec 2010
your  tunic pupils
extractions from the sky
encircle all that which lays in your deepest masculine eyelashes
Im enthralled with your profile
meager looks of
hearts dispelled
onto something greater than life in its most simplest form
you represent everything natural
extracted from the very womb of earth

I am lost in my own thoughts
of my responsibilites
as a woman of culture and as an artist
will I forgive myself
for touching your wounds

maybe not

your judgment passes me
as a frail child looks upon his guardian
no I am not that
I cant be


yes
yes
I need these little things that make us move
with what you say
love
love
I do agree
I nod my head in acceptence
awfully
to these things I can never posess
I will speak to you in these matters harshly
you see
sometimes I come off as too intense
too ******
at times I will make you forget
that I contain any kind of beauty

I have a holocaust in my heart
somewhere in its driven corners
and a black plague forfiting casting spells
to hearts somewhere in my eyes

I have sold many goodbyes
ignored many whys
and kept many standbys

black I watched these skies
turn
red I watched these thighs
burn
and just as quickly turn
pale
with an execution that very well
lasts a year sometimes

I want to be yours
but the sun and the moon
cannot live side by side

and neither could our two seperate cores
the ****** and the sores
sleeping somewhere under the beds of these bookstores

you see
I want to be yours
but Im afraid I have been burnt single
due to my wars
Third Eye Candy Sep 2016
morning came very early... like a graduate class.
it dispelled the notion of a snowflake's last Will and Testament
gilding the nettles, where the berries were plump and deep virility
nesting in the fearsome spines of an Urchin
of such Symmetry, that your medallions
become clay; and your Heart is restored
to fullest Rage... where a lark Once donned the Umbral Crown
of a yellow Sun.... Now morning came early in the dark
stealing your revisions from the very skull
of your Mind's Meme. from the skull you etch your herds
Of Bison... some figure with a spear
plunging deeply into the
'Side Joke.

You are Purchased
for a thimble of blood from a white Turnip !
and returned to the Parties, gargling rainbows and leprosy...
chafing the Beauty of a grog of distilled amnesias in a perfect Assumption... grooming our prayers for higher education
via fresh Hells and chipping away, always away, at the ****** Windows !
shards of a slightly opened view to a backyard
over a sink in your feelings, where you cup your hands
and splash a bracing revelation from a cool spring
Sprung from a pipe that runs Under the House, in the Dirt's dirt....
There in the gut of where
You call your Self
by Your
Name...

like a lamb in a lion's mouth
sharing the spoils of sacrifice
as well the lethality
of a Conviction's breach. you groom the best oblivions
running a comb through your Beached Whale.
all the blubber for your candles lit !
to better gloom the room's dark harmony, with all the Irony
Intact. but never the reason
you seldom
spat at Kites -
until the Wind bit your nose
in December...
because you never found a scarf
to match the disappointment in your
imagined eyes
as seen through the crease of your profile,
squinting at pixies
and marsh fires.... loving you in spite of you
is the every day horror of discrete epiphanies
that lead only to a grave of fireflies
and stray orphans from a clutch
of messenger pigeons... painted to look like wisps -
of no more than a grain of shadow...
with feathers so soft they perish
as you tremble your touch... groping the fragile wings
of a robot's grip on soaring metaphors... a frantic sort of hazy.
connections where the frost burns
your navel -
while basking in the
Furnace.

like a peach in a lightning bolt... fermenting in Plato's Cave
bargaining the Mahjong for the Google Map -
to your very next departure.
" Living the Glimpse " is what they call it,
back at Rocco's Bar.
you never drink for free but never pay for the miles you weep
with the tears you keep.
you make a Living Wage... and part with your loot.
and the bourbon back.
limestone heartaches merely caverns
where you least expect to see your Self
cavorting in the dark
with the
Truth.

You Beam Down to Look Up.

most of your amulets are barnacles
but you Sea just fine.

roving the volume of an Emptiness
with flint and a raincloud
by design.

preaching to a Flame about
an Iceberg god
that never Fell a Tree
to set ablaze.

you are never seen again if you catch the bus...

and nothing else happens
anyways.
SE Reimer Sep 2015
~

here our gathered shadows,
in this hallowed place,
'neath its high hewn beams,
within its vacuous space;
to these storied walls,
we add our sighs of suffering;
to these earthly halls
for you in love we bring
our ties of heart and this,
for you a proxied offering,
for you a plea for peace,
on your behalf entreat,
a prayer for hope, for rest.
as earthly labors cease,
as in the distance,
earthly mem’ry fades,
may all its toil,
its daily rage,
dispelled as vapor be,
and in its place
may love remain,
as you ever rest in peace.

~

*post script.

for those lost from these halls,
taken from us ’fore their time
for Ernest, the Seeker, the Dreamer!
Homunculus Mar 2020
I.

Eyes taking survey
of immediate surroundings.
Habitable? Yes.
Presentable? No.
At least not to anyone
lacking the neuroses which
with such resplendent ecology
were given perennial bloom
in the mental landscape
of this peculiar creature. . .  

Dwelling, as he does
within plaster walls
upon concrete floors
beneath fluorescent lights, as they
quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate
filth and fur amassed in quantities
sufficient to reconstruct entire animals,
and perhaps even ecosystems...

Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises
paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated
Musical implements, instructions, and instruments
supinely littered, almost as profusely
as the mountains of literature courting
avalanche from the rigid repose of
each supportive surface where they rest

Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as
spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but
at least they keep the bugs out...

Records in crates and stacks with
no particular organization. Hmm.
That last line sums it succinctly.
"No particular organization."
Yet he still unaccountably knows
within this squalor where
the minutest of objects reside

His thoughts and actions
are sporadic, leaving linearity
in want of apt expression
For him, it seems the shortest
path between two points
is a frenetic scribble

Getting things done
in a timely manner? Possibly.

Getting sidetracked and forgetting
the original plan? Probab-  HEY
                                                         DID
                                                  YOU
                                                         GUYS

                                                  SEE          
                                                  ­       THAT?!?!?!?!

 

II.

                                And    ­                  
"Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!"
Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell.
Erelong might this assertion be dispelled
                 With them and their opinion. . . . .
                STRAIGHT TO HELL!

For now the music of Debussy fills the air,
  and now this vagabond has found a locus
  a flag and bond of jouissance and care
  arresting him  in implacable focus

Inhaling the aroma of the night
  he raises up his quill with great delight
  and sets the implement in fervent motion
  and bathing in the passions it ignites

He yields to it in rapturous devotion
  and as if under spell or magic potion
  his brain and nerves and muscles all engage
  in spilling forth the fury of an ocean

Society has trapped him in a cage
  ensnared him in frivolity, it seems
  but his ink abounds in freedom on its page
  and guides him to tranquility from rage  

As Luna pours her iridescent beams
  into this weary poet's dreary head
  his mind illuminates with fate's esteem
  and ruminates through labyrinths of dream

As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said
  becomes a tapestry of order, woven
  with chaos as the impetus that's led
  this blessed magnanimity has shed

A light to guide the way; a path to show him
  to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden
  who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen:
"Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."  

Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him!

III.

"If a cluttered desk",
a man once asked,
"Is a sign of a cluttered mind?"
"Of what, then,"
he continued,
"is an empty desk a sign?"
I have ADD or ADHD or whatever they're calling it these days. I was diagnosed as a child, and the condition has persisted with me into adulthood, presenting undeniable challenges and difficulties. This piece is an attempt to illustrate the manifestations, both outward and inward, of what it is like to live with this condition.
Marshall Gass Feb 2014
The invisible hand that stretches across
Oceans and  barbed wire boundaries
Has more fingers than the streams of light that cascade
from the heavens into the dark recesses
of your magnificence.

There are moments when all seems lost
But the shadow of darkness is dispelled
And replaced by this glimmer of hope
That softly and subtly invades
Your magnificence

Even as we explore the faint avenues
That wound their way into our consciousness
We clearly seem to understand how our journeys
Criss-crossed over exotic landscapes
And stark desolate realties
To merge into a moment of  mystery.

We have finally met.
Now more human than before
The pages  of our past turn slowly
The notes we compare are cryptic and careless
But what we share seems to have been sculpted
By the same pen filled with the same ink of wisdom.
Tonight I’ll go into the copse of firs
Where I last saw her, and love blossomed
I remember lust, a face plastered on hers
And the love that was then awesome.

But those woods are black and empty
So barren now and without life.
Rocks cut my shoes, once just lumpy.
There’s not a bird that chirps a fife.

The sun sets and frost nips my nose
I still remember the vibrant red rose.
The ice beneath, it chills my toes.
And the little brook, it’s now froze.

Without you, I just can’t exist
I still remember that last kiss.
Without you, I count the hours
And I watch the death of flowers.

Without you, My heart cries out
For sadness to be dispelled--
Without you, Life means nothing
And I ache with lack of loving.

Without you, There’s no catharsis
Why was I then so heartless?
Without you, There’s only blackness
No salvation from this sadness.
This one means a lot to me. I made it in October 2013 when I was going through a suicide crisis...
Jonny Angel Apr 2014
The ages tell no lies,
those conjurors swirling
deadly rumors
& brewing evil-karma
have their own rewards.

Some call it sorcery,
the diabolical-spells
boiling forth troubles,
bringing recompense
to the unholy,
who deserve
a helping hand
from Hell itself.

And yet,
truth has seen
the coming of days,
dispelled the myths,
looked
into the dormant
cauldrons of many,
lying
frozen in ice,
under the twinkling
skies of Heaven.
Andre Baez Jul 2014
You're my soulmate, it doesn't mean that we're lovers, it doesn't mean we're family, it means we complete each other
If the other stuff comes true, it's part of what's due, truthfully I don't mind being apart of you
Not all consuming your heart, just a branch, or a twig, maybe even some leaves or bark
It's a start, and that's all I need, I've long been dispelled by notions of greed to feed me
Sit down and eat with me and I'll laugh with you, take a part of my soul, and I'll take part of you
Even if it's a simple image on my screen, it's the picture of you, which fills up my dreams
I'm an open canister, and you're my lovely banner, never tempered by tantrums
You hold my heart ransom, in the light with my soul, never give me up for some silver or gold
Likewise I carry your heart in tow, I own the greatest prize, so what the hell is silver and gold?
Steve Page Sep 2023
I envy the equine fly twitch,
the contraction of muscle, the shudder
triggered by the fly’s tickle -
the irritation dispelled in a moment.
I envy that gift to dismiss the torment,
as I sit through another pointless argument.
I never knew that was what this is was called: a fly twitch.  I'd seen it many times and wondered at the ability shudder on comamnd.
Harshita Nov 2010
Coffee, like the breeze in the sun.
My lashes, like butterflies flutter,
Wet with water from the first splash.
Invigorated, exhilarated and refreshed,
The mist on my morning eyes, dispelled.

I wear no makeup,
Because I am here. I am alive.
And I am doing what makes me feel good.
Beautiful is how I feel.
Inspite of the morning breath.

I hold the warm cup,
The heat of the cup warming my frosty hands,
My senses steal the divine aroma,
Steam rises in swirls, lines and shapes.
Becoming lost in the air.

Black coffee, brown sugar and beige cream.
This is art, at its finest.
Oh! The little things in life,
That make life worthwhile.
Danielle Rose Oct 2013
A moment in your eyes could stay sketched in mind timelessly
The power your piercing gaze holds makes my mind crumble translating to stutters
of expressionless wonders
Intensity keeps a smile from forming
Feelings spike to shock and speechlessness
As layer by layer I begin unfolding until naked and completely unraveled
A surrender that kept me motionless
I want to run
I want to hide
But I'm left clinging to your sleeve heaving
As I morn the loss of the self I once fit into comfortably
I almost unwillingly dispelled the anchor that held me down
and drifted until my tired body felt the sand of safe grounds
It was your island
It was your stability
It was all recognized when you took my hand with great agility
I sat in tears letting the gold fall through my hands
Watching it glisten as my foot prints trailed along
I took time to kiss the new land I stand upon
Then looked up ambitiously with anew strength ready to explore
ALK Feb 2013
I stood there alone in that sun-drenched field
The grass was all dead,
It was stiff yet it would still yield.
I was plugged in, dead to all but what I saw.
I let the music wash over me as I wished the stinging in my eyes would subside.
There was no one around, no to hear me yell or cry.

The strange thing was, I didn’t do either.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t, or didn’t want to.
Whatever the case, I knew that I would have to move soon.

The world around me was as dead as it could be,
Yet it seemed so bright and clear
Almost as if it were somehow happy.

Not once, despite this strange quandary
Did I get the feeling.
The one of sadness and extreme self-loathing.
I just stood there and watched as this pristine world
Slowly shaped itself and the clouds whirled.

For once, there was no logic or extraneous though.
I felt one with this world, I was newly begot.
Reborn to peace, a happiness inside.
My darkness dispelled, yet I still didn’t cry.

That was it, all that I felt.
I was looking through a crystal lens at it all,
And it made me feel so fake,
Like I was drawn into a photograph by some cartoonist.

Yet, I knew I was there.
I felt he swinging of the camera around my neck
And the bite of the cold on my cheeks.
But not much else.

I was happy for a time, so very pleased
But slowly I came to center
And that elation ceased.
I felt nothing, was nothing, and knew nothing.

I was just there, a being without purpose
A man without reason
And a boy staring at the swaying trees.

The only thing that dared cross my mind
Was a thought of you
And how I wished you were there upon that windswept field with me.
I wrote this today, I took a walk after I got home from school with my camera. I ended up in the middle of a golf-course green. These are my exact thoughts as they came to me.
Madison Marian Jan 2015
Hopes rise and fall
Wings tear and break
Love is thin
But so is hate
Walls come down
That separate us
Revealing souls
So generous
Past is gone
Yet it is not
You are your past
The leaves that have rot
The wing that tore
The wall that fell
The hopes that crashed
And the love dispelled
Never ended us
Or prohibited
They became us
Unleashed not inhibited
Skeptic Tank Jan 2012
We walked the beaches holding hands,
Our naked feet massaged upon its
Grainy, cornmeal, golden sand
And water blue as Texas Bonnets.

The sun was gently overcast,
Its golden light dispelled by haze.
And though it's beauty would not last,
Our hearts were with its fleeting rays.

I dared to touch you, eye to eye,
And in your bright gray Iris found
That same dispelled and gentle sky
Forever to my spirit bound.

Our footsteps furrowed in the sea,
As if the ocean bid them come
And dance its waters rhythmically.
They stayed, instead, like raisined plums.

And while we walked in harmony
We sang a hymn to God, our King,
Encouraged by the endless sea
And love so vast, untamed, to sing.

The ocean seemed to sing along
And underscored our three-four time
With lapping like a metronome—
The trio trippingly sublime.

Our anthem, carried on the breeze,
Sauntered through your curly hair.
A lonesome trembling dread then seized
Your forehead—cute while whipping there.

At last, as though a common day,
The sun went down, gave way to moon.
Our song grew still. A silent lay
Voiced then our love. But that was June.

If love's first minute after Noon
Is night, our walking, singing songs
Should have made us fear, since soon
The love we shared would all be wrong.

But true minds married will confess
That Love's no fool of Times. So, Sweet,
Our love continues to regress
While holding hands with wrinkled feet.
Written around 2000. One of my first.
Cheyenne Aug 2015
Directors and playwrights:
Puppet-masters pulling strings.
With an ending clearly written
A divergence is unseen.
Lines rehearsed,
Movements blocked,
Costumes sewn,
A table of props.
Each piece dependent on the other,
With trust that each will stick
To the parts neatly rehearsed,
To the lines within the script.
And it is wondrous entertainment
For an evening in the dark,
Where the set is just a fiction,
Each player, just a part.
But I'm not here for your enjoyment.
I'm not here to play along.
With the conflicts you've determined;
With your solutions to these wrongs.
I know my lines, I read them.
I know my steps, I've walked them.
But these lines, you wrote them.
And these steps, you blocked them.
How can I accomplish
Something different, something new
When I am following in footsteps
Conjured up by you?
It'll leave my company scrambling
To get us back on course--
But I have no desire
In the destination forced.
And if the set begins to crumble--
And the illusion is dispelled--
And all others break from character--
And the misconceptions that they held,
Then certainly my disruptions
Would not have been in vain,
When something new arises
On the stage that still remains.
This is inspired by a philosophy my father taught me and which he learned from an old law school professor. The argument was that if you do what everyone expects you to do, then everything will turn out the way it has always turned out (the actual story is much longer and more specific, but this was the message). This coincides nicely with Shakespeare, and his assessment of the world as a stage.
Kevin Apr 2017
i thought of ants and how they colonize
and remembered the importance of my breath.
offset the thinning path
were pink and purple blossoms.
blue jays appeared to
keep the cardinals mindful
while the thaw of spring dispelled
the white curse of winter.
i watched their dance on broken twigs
and their consciousness budding forefront,
i thought about the importance to their dance
and forgot about my breath.

masses of aluminum color
regarded my need for space.
offset the flattened tar,
my chains churned in earnest
while synthetics fought the earth and
purple blossoms danced in their own way.
i am guilty of fighting in that war,
guerrilla tribes of rubbered feet,
propelled by accepting neglect.
these bodies are filled with meters
to measure varying complications,
none of which are relevant in our time.
but still i continued to fight and dance
and remember my need for breath
while the jays and cardinals
danced amongst the pink and purple blossoms

budding full of consciousness,
disregarding our foolish guerrilla fight.
this is my perspective on the path that humans walk and the fork in the road we've taken.
421

A Charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld—
The Lady dare not lift her Veil
For fear it be dispelled—

But peers beyond her mesh—
And wishes—and denies—
Lest Interview—annul a want
That Image—satisfies—
AP Vesper May 2018
Cynicism is just a word
Disillusioned with the era of mankind
Ever seeing evil amongst the land
With tales of war and destruction
Without a handshake or hug to boot

Cynicism is just a word
Coiling the fabric of relationships and heartbreak
Burrowing further down the rabbit hole
Brimming with doubt and desire
Yet never dispelled

Cynicism is just a word
Portrayed by the immorality of office
Lies and Deceit become honesty
As love and passion, forbidden
And without the seed to grow

Cynicism is just a word
No
No
No
No
A way of life

— The End —