Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
Sometimes he was like f+ck it
just went ahead and stuck em
let em fall where they stood
crack another bottle and brood
hysterically on the ridiculous
he had a meticulous knack for belittling the serious, berating feelings and imposing his will in a furious fashion. He liked knives and passion, and will cash in on your lashings. A vigilante, stealing antes to match the chips. The missing teeth of split lipped grinns bidding his amends to the dense. sent to cleanse, the fences on the perimeter. a distributor of disasters.
contributor to the laughter in the stoical spleens of nerdy teens, always cheering for the away team.
He was the benefactor of traction-less tractors rotting in the mud. He was a slacker, smothering the world in love. He was above all else, on drugs.
Lorraine day Sep 2013
He prowls around like a hungary lion
Looking for his bait
Be alert of sober mind
Don't let him be your fate

He is the prince of darkness
This is his world of rule
The leader of temptation
Deceit his favourite tool

He's arrogant he's boastful
Satan is his name
His followers the Antichrist
Destruction is his game

The master of disaster
The distributor of fear
Be on your guard
He'd like us all
To believe that he's not here

I used to walk in darkness
His path I walked along
I told fortunes by reading tarrot cards
Then realised this was wrong

Through ouija board I met him
And spoke with his spirits too
He spits deceit to all he meets
Including me and you

His aim is of destruction
Many ways he'll surely find
To annihilate abolish
The  (love ) of all mankind

To all who don't believe in him
Just Look around you'll see
So many in his image

( There's only Christ can set us free ~)
John 8:32) Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free~
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
<•>

Preface
___

early Sunday morning her head, half pillowed, half my-chested, in the shady, darkened room with just enough entering daylight to clarify the assortment of miscellanea you are mind visualizing, ordering...it's the exact time when the disguised passing thoughts traverse mixed in with the ordinary of the day ahead, the day passed, your passionate emails, that require complete, non-hasty, contemplative answering, the onerous chores, the pretend-someday-additions to the reading list, the running time for the my little pony movie (wasn't awful), the chances we will be a football team with an 0-5 record (we are) at the end of the day when god ******, well lit,
it sly sneaks in,

I write for women

auditioning as a possible poem title
and just to be sure, it performs a singing audition, we hear it loud and clear, as it snaps fingers and makes Pandora play:
"Your love keeps lifting me higher
Than I ever been lifted before,
So give me love, Which is my desire"

caught, exposed, *******, brain chiming, nails chewing, cylinders firing, pas de choix, and it's now my fingers turn, not to snap,
but to obediently tap
the truth about me, man

10/9-17 8:29am

<•>

I write for women (give yourself away)

alternating currents, one electrical impulse sparkling sparking
to prove I am among the living, and that the engine, yet revving, the beating, the heart toe-tapping, and the next,
is an explication explosion for each and everyone, for you, just, you,
why, I write, for women, for to give myself away

please say your name out loud
right now, right here, don't process, proceed, if you can't...
then
répète après moi,
"he writes for me and no one else"

it is not sorrowful but it could be,
it is simple words but not simple in the slightest,
for constantly falling is a ******* the soulfulness,
hard, too, is in the re-collecting the absences, the aloneness,
even as hard as the opposite, the constant awrying of the daily plan when so much bountiful beautiful
makes an ordinary crazy extravagant delightful,
so so necessary, so **** elemental - it is true oxygen of sustaining,
so necessary to be beyond

to write that every moment is a possession (yours) would be an
understatement, even wrong...for I am a molecular composite of your mystique mystery, each time i am writing-returning  
one bone chip excised as an accounting, the untainted marrow where-the-will-from-where-I-came from, which is from you,
one birth mother,
but so many names many origins all one cell subdivided

each livre is an escapee, a de-lightening runaway, of me,
and in the emptying is my creating
a happy self conception
a Benjamin Button reversal, as was intended

this is the hardest poem I have written in my abbreviating
years, but if not now, when?
I hand-wring cause
I cannot successfully explain well enough the
why

easy understood, why and try rhyme so naturally

I will once more walk the city streets, each espied
a dream mind-see to connect,
distributor to each of an odd shaped token,
a failed self-explanatory thank you for existing,
no whys or wherefores,be given-out  
regardless of creed, color and age,
but not ***, for absolutely this is all about ***,
repaying the grieving and the believing.
the obligation
the happy diminishment
Brent Kincaid Oct 2015
Sitting in my easy chair
By the double windows
Happy just to be here
In my ratty old bungalow.
But happy doesn’t cover it.
It’s really dreams come true.
I have my own place here.
No roommate to suffer through.

It’s Saturday afternoon now
The sun slowly going down
Painting my walls colored
Like the face of a happy clown;
Reds and whites and yellow
Bouncing off the green lawn
And making art of my home
Until the sun at last is gone
Yet I still remember every tone.

Some days I sit under my tree.
I ate the avocadoes you know.
And I planted it right here
No idea that it would grow
Into this magnificent tree
It is twenty five feet or so;
A beauty that calms me
Just watching it grow.

Rain on the roof
Distributor of peace
Of rest and sleep;
A blessed release
For what better to do
What stronger proof
Than taking a great nap
With rain on the roof?
When you look at him
You see a violent man ready to attack.

When I look at him
I see the guy who carried me around Disney World on his shoulders.

When you look at him
You see a possible drug distributor in the state of Florida.

When I look at him
I see the guy who LARPs in his front yard with his friends.

When you look at him
You see a ****.

When I look at him
I see the guy who held my hand before I got on my first rollercoaster to comfort me.

When you look at him
You see the man you shot because he, "charged."

When I look at him
I see an innocent man killed in cold blood.

When you look at him
You see suspect white male early 20s wearing basketball shorts and a tshirt.

When I look at him
I see Derek Cruice.
RIP old friend...
Mark Sep 2019
Yo, word up with you, my drug running mule  
It'll cost $30.00 ok? I've got it right here, so don't drool  
Put that **** in your mouth, too *****  
Yo get bumped with that ****, yo aren't gonna get any Cuban cigar  
Done, another bag of crack, sold  
Be on ya way, you've been told  
 
I'm Skillet and I'm 19, I've been doing this ****, since I was 15, man  
You've gotta feed yourself, 'cos nobody else going to be able to do it, like I can  
We grew up without mothers and fathers around us, do you feel me?
You've got to be your own father figure and steal, you see  
Get your own money out here, however you like  
'Cos no one's gonna to give it to you, not even brother Mike  
  
I get crack on credit, and sell it for $10.00 a rock  
After a long day of moving product, back at the trap house, we use a big lock  
The real work begins, splitting the take. 1st up, the crew take their cut  
Between the 3 of us, we're gonna split a $400 profit, off the ounce  
It works out at about $13.00 an hour, not bad for a daily rut  
We count on volume to make ends meet, for me and my louts  
 
It's not too much, but it's about the quick flip  
We aren't really thinking about making too much money, it's just a real trip  
We're worried about getting it in and getting it off  
So we can stay with it, you feel me you toff?  
The rest of the cash goes up the chain, to the crews drug supplier  
He's a regional distributor, that works with the cartel, it's a no brainer  
  
You have to pay him or you'll be six feet under, you'll be smoke man  
******* smoking for that account man and his Mexican clan  
Where we're from you've gotta keep it with you, not he  
Or somebody will run in your trap or something, you feel me?  
In 2014 there were over 2,500 shootings in Chicagoland  
Everybody out here are either thirsty, robbers, killers or Alice in ******* wonderland  
 
You gotta keep your eyes open for the haters, you might see  
They'll try and take you down, 'cos they ain't eating, you feel me?  
It's all out war everywhere, except ******* communist North Vietnam  
That's why we call it Chiraq, because it's so ****** up over here, ****  
You don't know where it's coming from, man  
Your ***** would cross you for a couple of bucks  
That's how it is, yo gotta keep your pistol close, even when you call the ******* waiter  
If not, ya gonna get got, much sooner, than later.  
 
Skillets homeboy Breeze, is always ready with a gun  
He's had plenty of practice and not just for fun  
I use this all the time. ****, if I had to swap with someone, that belong  
**** be getting hot, you can't keep the hot ones for too long  
There's my baby though, as McDonalds say, 'I'm loving it'  
All we need is that money, man, that's all we care about and ***** ****.
1 -

No glares of missing eyes, just the one, at the center that soars high. Mst of all. It fles, careless and free. It’s hands pills precious wine, as it recites poetry about the end times. Conjure up as emotions of failures and shame, meet within. Not million, in fact in the billions dismissed the thought of arrival. Shutter in fear and weep to each word spoken, in that poem, that recites, in every detail, how your life will end. It’s tongue, doesn’t skip a beat, rhymes perfectly, in every human tongue. Though it’s a tyrant, some have complete devotion to such creature, redish aura over a dark shape. The eagles seem to cry. Rats and cats run to it, to pay their own homage. Fogs and dogs, mist and a devilishly ******* smell. Pigs talk and end up screaming about sacrifice. Such is early talks, of such end times. Prone to sudden fits of rage, wearing cold ****** to the creature, is as natural to him, as breathing is to you. Gold, *** with virgins, praises will be used, more valuable to what had just been written, one’s own soul, nothing in this life is free, everyone was given life, despite never asking for it. Master of famine, king and queen to poverty, dreamer user, inventor and distributor of disease. When voted in men and women give in, trenches of brave people, rage war, knowing privately they’ll fail. Still they try. No one is truly pious, it will take more than forever to master that trait and so very few are blessed with immorality. This creature has the attributes of a supreme leader, just without its own kingdom. For in no dogma, no myth, no whispers of physical storytelling knows of such creature, no prophecy, nothing, not even in Nostradamus. Endless it seems, for it walked to the horizon and back, perhaps it comes from the other side of the moon. Trembling slaves in chant in joy, from learnt pleasure and addicted to a self-produced evil, after so much, they grow to love, follow the creature, sweeping down to help. Fine, call it demons if you must, for most, that's the best their own imagination can conceptualize. People are their prized pleasures to take with them and eventually turn into them. Lust can be good. We’ve got something inherent in us and encourages us to be a bit more carnel, sinful, selfish and so on. Most just keep it a bit better kept, inside the privacy of their own home. After-all, in a democratic system, ****** got vote in. not in vain read this, do not concern yourself from where, how or why I write this. Death will come, the end of the world will come, just ask yourself, what will come first? Work for everything, but cherish nothing. In the transition, you’ll never be permitted to take anything with you. Just your soul to what makes you good and your sins to which you've committed, and will atone for at gunpoint. When you hear your fate, life will either be a total blessing or something completely unjust. Both will last forever after death or the end times. Solemn. Poets, be master of your word, painters, be master of your strokes, musicians, be master of each note. Do not live in angst people, life will be better before this time, without anxiety, at least some joy will be experienced and not something to be yearning for. Wild beasts will come and **** your first daughter and chop off the private of your first born. Without a care and it’s master will teach them how. Humanity is only a glint. One glint. Like a star. Pretty from a distant, something to philosophize over, than learn, but close at face sight, the star is already dead. Whoever said the struggle will stop today? A-lot of Mystics dead and never to be martyred. Plus, you don’t have any gold to give away, so you can remove your past. Underslung sky, now is not the time for fear, that comes later. Desolate intense resent nothing at the same time of everything. Bloated with both virtue and lust. Malice. For life wanted melody, instead, people got malady. The creature stepping over earth's land, people run, as that very military shoots and ending fail. It’s not monster film. People run, some stop to pay homage and offer their souls, as the so called demons **** them up, those people turn to sin and **** in **** form and iron race, become. For some, if they’re going to be talented, it’s far better to be such of someone in great fame, to things they've always wanted to do to one another. Most people die. The creature sets up camp, Astana. Takeover and demands complete and whole obedience. Holy books burn. Slaves for the rest still living, though mostly dark ashes fall from the sky, grey colour themes, burning bodies left on the ground and homeless children asking for their mothers walk, all people see is their personal fear. Lukewarm life is at best. Daring not to live anymore or any better. Once a servant to one's life, now just a servant to dying days. Violet in all violence. Voiceless tears inside interior chambers, cry private prays, not even confessing to one another, muted silence between people, saturate this earth. Marching to Zion, they’ve given up. And no network of hope or revolt. In harmony, all remaining poets weep at a blanket and shared evil, that everyone is experiencing under this rule. To the police, in tempest wrath, those demons that tagged along. This is a neo-empire outshining those before. It’s a shame that stupidity isn’t painful to one’s whole entire essence. Wanting avator’s. Getting none. Over a thousand year period, lavish pillars rise, it’s that humanity forgot about the godhead-figure, they simply forget. New omens provide a new scent for earth. Astana remains the capital of earth. With different races of tiled skin, phishing tongues, tall, green. Peoples private hell is prolonged. The rich **** any animal and tear off their skin, use it as fur coats, they smile. So let’s take a trip, where anyone can **** limp, ******* in public and spend money on any mofoe. Getting lonely, I can’t control it, pass me the blunt, let me roll it. Perhaps it;s doubt in anything that will bring pain, not knowing the truth that I had been hoping for to bring me freedom. Supreme leader is now the title of the creature. And everywhere he goes, are ****** ******, both men and women, preferably if they were under the age of sixteen. Because they haven’t been broken. With no floods, no locus, some disease, ****** became normal and a bit of ****. No money, a lot of silver, a neo royalty line is produced amongst people’s blood, the half cast between those demons and virgins, both male and female. Swallowing eternity. As any prince would laugh. Though from the sky, the earth is drowsed with new philosophy. In textile fields, elderly women tend to those fields, all missing one eye and stuck in old age forever. As young boys run naked around neo palace’s. Just only entertainment. Writers invent new tragedy stories, abated pale, blue and pure. Misting stageplays for giggles and laughing till it hurts in the stomach that encourages everyone who watches to give into lust. Like we’re all meant to do. Along watery plateau,  different breed of Mystics walk, those born in the world before that survived the initial stages, ate eagle eyes and living now, until time decides to stop mocking everyone and finally give up and provide the final solution. Under red dusk, those know most things are propaganda, freedom inside someone’s *******. ***** everywhere. Like steam leaking from any paved roads and newly built cities. Images strung from the air that remind people, peasants too be honest, that we all can die. Disc of time. Burnt colours. Nothing said about hope, love and romance. No weddings. As for babies, they pop up at random places, roads, dumpsters, fields with goats, public toilets and the nile. To whoever finds them first, by law they are the new parents. **** is punishment if those do not take the babies. **** kittens. Rereading of Ovid. Talk of having Latin as one language, going beyond this world. And Helen is her name. Streams of Blood. Phinx is his name. My king, my queen. What tears can bore? The dooming death and nothing forces us to change or to know, nothing greater than pain. Bore. shame and exile to those who age. Life is not for them to claim, old-fashioned school of thought, doub their words. Until a neo-poet rises from the ash below, drops of stars and Lions stand on their tongue, not from wrestling but out of respect, breed of new prophet in these times of neo-dogma. Revolt personally as a single person in revolution. People to pray to this poet as they write words on the second renaissance, where only those born to create great works of beauty to walk this earth, like Monks in a monastery. At the moment, until it defeats the creature, monster to any god, it's only a moment or glimmer of hope. One hero, born under one tree. Weaving thoughts of romance, soulmate to those with intelligence, poetic to the poor and match to one only, no-one else. Most of all, birthing life for those who deserve it.
(knowledge variable)
West of a mutilated day, wormwood salts are scattered for some wild-chinned Controllers on a high pinnacle with viva vox in the Mandrake, Vernarth's house of Orion:

Saint John the Apostle says the proverbial Psalm: “In the lofty Cage, Gregorian sylphs, with skillful gestures and mania for cheering, are graced for coming to the Way of the cheap and venerable souls that are made up of the bodies of the evil-born on their railing. , in quagmire of swallowing spittle where the cold winter is banished, to jump from the cold oriental, having to walk with the elbows, and with the daring screams of the Sylphs that shake themselves among the foggy and fleshy tangle with rags and fur cloths flying smoothly through the tops of the oak trees in smoke to purge for Vernarth! Gospel, gospel in the barn of the delicate humus was felt, and that it was refracted in the refined forest with philosophical sacred love. Lord, all of us who are because we are, are you Lord ..., all in my exercises of loving gaze, are channeled by the indexes of my thumb to the little finger at the bottom of the sea, and float again from the little finger to the bottom of the surface. Waving in the transience of the world and holding back, Father God thunder, this with laryngitis when he outlines himself with the vast earthly sight, he covers with his right hand, the phlegm of ***** that made him drive an empty tremor, in my lack of security he testified by singing thousands and millions of choirs at this auction. The first ring of the profile will be carried by Jesus light, rubbing his back with some eyelashes of a drunk beetle, while the beetle will collect water between its extensions that will wail real needs of every morning albi - rosaceous that will travel in a circle towards the auditory of the Last auctioned saying: "As I have not to be where I was and was ..., if at night my beloved morning row impulsively and goes against it so as not to stumble into the night ...". Each cut piece of the dermis will have to be auctioned, I had Faith and the screenplay, encapsulated and embedded in each hope of the ramshackle flock, the impiety-weary ogre needed to stow his empty viscera with the cloth of the celestial kingdom, which at auction was beginning to squeeze and vanish when regurgitating smoothies and disintegrated spaces of belonging of the devotees of Vernarth. The writing is signed with lupus, this Lucia emanated from the morning resentment of skin envy, and from the massif drenched in anarchy and city archeology, lying hesitantly ..., as if the forest gave it some indication of rebirth, under the shadow of twinkling doubt, from the high front where they were nuanced over the engendered banners of truth, elucidating the forbidden and true matrix.

Adelimpia, Vernarth's grandmother, was squatting cutting the drool from the dwarf tree that lost a forage, at around 6:30 p.m. on the 39.9th day of a supposed 14th month of another dimension, almost winding up in a tangled series of productive hesitations and rituals, taking her victorious chariot in Lent where the teacher without felt traction, weave sprinkles of forgiveness on her distributor, starting her shaft and not her running engine, she already knew herself as a commoner with the wake of a ship without knowing where to go. Those who did not see themselves more backward intrigued to be part of the central bar of the rocker of the nymphs in their stadium, with a yawning lip where no one was invited. Mega-watt snitches go to the sacristan, breaking speeds of intangible entities that abide by her law, as a sage vilified in her secular realm, even in nowhere, the atmospheric larynx hissed widening through the flakes of the auctioned field, Joshua leaping with her. Cranky black horse Equus, with his anthropomorphic hooves, accelerated with action that put him among the lost belongings of the plateau, whose east limited him to two half-quarters of each other, and two-thirds slowing the sunset from ruby to ruby, brightening in the shades of green and green. Vernarth  Bernardolipo's father swallowed crops, from whose movements were born out of place gestures of residence, parturient fairies appeared emerging at once, or perhaps not emerging, the afternoon crushes the unplayable sun, Hugh and Anne covered their supra orbital eye areas, more towards a hillside where thousands of repertoires were being knocked down, and copious tableware with caked sugar, which seemed to reduce the acoustics from the beginning in what seemed solidly to fade to postulate in new shades of the weary rubbed rainbow, like thousands of shades doing the times of zascandil  in a curled comb, re-sprouting certain storm deities in the natural bow of the wind entangled in each stratus, sprinkling on the hectares of Possessions, standard deeds, sales orders, mutual funds, bonds ... the coffers and the earthly decomposed. Before each onslaught, a highly dense fog arose, highly ignored, anti-critical, and more disparaging of amassing a high scarcity with a local, in his quintals of his last bread for the flock. Lashes that exceed the grammage, foliage from leaf to leaf, from today until tomorrow, in a traveling satyr of dry leaves, "The Sphincter of the World will need Purgative ...".

Marathon of poisonings,… Lord, you have looked me in the eye; with your boat I will follow you, to your privileged perspiring cinnamon dock with various vociferous songs. What fared more than seven zeros, now they will be eaten by rodents, Lord attend my prayers, the pink mast has been sailing at several knots from the north, and it is rapidly losing its polar location, between verbs never traveled or driven, I dared to show off that the path of the gospel in small distant fragments will abound in infinite space, only the one that predominates will glide over my forehead with an accumulation of everything seen and that today in this sale; where everyone you own and care for, like a baby in front of a dissimilar kinship of good adventure and progeny that will leave your hands. "  

Etréstles says: "Soft and mellifluous presumptions ..., where do I have to look if nothing is heard? What is proposed and permeates the law of possessing and not, perhaps the strap reaches an infinite house, where the sun breaks down ..., the spout of my minimal rebirth slowly turned it into my reoriented defined cell. My grandfather Joshua fertilizes the new sales every day with his hooves bandaged with hemp, the sebum stones since they were so are already spirited circles, the hand of the maker is being compared with his tactile sense, Kaitelka's lungs, full of phosphate residues and sulphated, for the first time they milk in medium drops on their udders, although saying and what they prefer to assert of a worthy Down! If it were not, for his regal model of cetacean ostentation, he would not be in the Horcondising taking from today, towards the end of the curtain in the regular blushes, to create the great detachment, so necessary for the pulsating plain and purge his master Vernarth . The night covers it with sulfur oceanic satin, with the spauto of its jet and a magical moving game. Everyone was distracted when she circled over the routines of well-magnetized charms. More than two subjects were deprived of their well-placed jaw, when the overtime ran not crossing in the entire field in which she lived. It was time to unmask the interveners, the boatswain of the alfalfa field had been eating almonds with oil from the sole of a Joshua bototo shoe, she folded her wings at halftime to take a modest breath, to resume weak paths, deprived of confidence and not. To know who they would obey and to whom they would yield the fruit of their old and stock market work in the garden. Chaos for them, light of Lights, for those affiliated with the ruler who is Joshua, who will live behind a makeshift Patagua tree, erecting  aquisus tents and the dogmas of tomorrow. The magnificent concessions in the Horcondising massif continued to fall precipitously; some rummaged through their accounting almanacs, distanced and squandered their exquisite profits. The stagecoach is moving away, and the barrels of water were scarce, the aroma and tastes of roasted beef comes out over the bushes, the stores sway in a naive wind of blooming daisies, the sales were coming against the owners themselves, the taste of the laughter degraded their own present absence, the paraphernalia of the little birds on the carpet of the mountain plateau were, they began to do mercy of the tip in the exposed beams, the hundred feet with calluses came down from the semi-incinerated poles. Nothing smelled of pride anymore, just the last shadow of Joshua's Chief Sheriff; Vinicius, who thinned out the spotlights of the semi-strongmen still trying to collect his heavy wealth, now that among clouds of heavy cargo they went to give him only one habit to try to fit his body, just to wear his outfit. They looked, looked and kept looking at his octogenarian tearful sapro- genito dream, where the first dream ends, and his exile begins. Vinicius, locks the door, and starts drinking mate tea; while screams of those bad jackals were heard fighting for their inherited evils, in manners of not conquering those who lose a dream of their patriarchal courting-love, under the shadow of the most powerful bush for the rest of their lives in groves. Crumbs come off the beards of Joshua, his galvanized knife cuts multiform slices, to feed everyone equally and continue the purge of Vernarth "

The most desolate deity came; he walked in full sun, shelled and unattached, full of elongated bridles and with haste in his eyes. But not in its strides, thousands of years passed, and it brushed with my lost zeal in the quarrels of the Argolica, in the salinized and rotten feces of Eurymedousa, with its snowy and tricolor feet, hooded with its goods! , therefore, unable to sustain its own air from its nasal socket, dropping it likes brave foam that fell in the fired distance. Bad cooked fruit, with the flavor of a sleeping cinnamon stick, mitigating in its kind balsam, frayed wind yielding 360 and so many more suns, before the last one that I carry on my limbs ends. The end of the End began, in the seven ends adorning my steps. The obscene deities came, with their rebuilding geo music, breaking endometriums of goddess’s mobs and their almost massacred Pillan Mapu, among thousands that were, thousands of nowhere they are ..., in a today already anesthetized. He lies in the stench of the corrugated floor, in the wooden handles and rods stacked on the floor gesturing; the god Pillan Mapuche, under a generic vault of sleep falls into lethargy on the faces, leaving his unintelligible hollow free; and its unbalanced environment, crossing the basaltic moraine that circulated one day from the placenta of the fatigued cemetery. Dreams in kilos everywhere of pressed ducks, with dense covering and grasses on the hooves of bucephalos, crucible, living trident and extraordinary flowers ***** in floating skirmish, with dosing globules, thirst that is born from the whiteness of the first day in confessional liberation, cell of white with a looted look, shields of osculation, like icy air that transpires his ninth life and that is born from his ninth death, splinted in the face of death that mutilates his fingers when crossing his genes of perfidious and monkish plot of a life bypass. I sing or I do not sing, I lack my throne from where I observe the glances with time and impudence, possessing everything behind the back of the macabre time in counter-steps of tender golden plague, in foreign skin growing on my right blanket, from so much passing lights with cracked night outings, walking towards me, between roads and between Monday nights with faces of long and sinuous unctuous branches, with great step and size. Now I have to draw the curtain, on light lying in the shadow of an opening scattered in warm beets. With sincerity ..., and mistake there is no will to germinate in them, I will be born without being with them, to be meaningless without them ..., and that it is above other absences, with great eloquent and numerical weight on absent.

They are still plastered, washed out and with the frizzy pigments of a parnassus Paradise, where it has been intervening over its bloodless headers. Joshua walks thousands of steps on with his Equus skull, like a meridian slipping off certain rods of decay. Thus they all floated in the cephalous porous airs, with great airs of Cain collapsing on Abel recomposed in reserves of a millennium that fell twisted and stunned, captivated by an ominous word. Sendal covered themselves in bandurrias that covered the melodious icebergs of exulting individuals and swollen with passion, with their rummaging and thunderous noises going along with their flowers to the sea dissipated. My paternal grandmother was delimited; she paraded from the openings with cough-covered mounds of the frozen volcano, growing reflective slits of dense gradation in the nervousness of the overhang and angry sighing heat, in all the vertiginous and venerable spirits numbed by the darkness of so many sorrows on their bluish heads. Eurymedousa, already ill-fated to continue in Rhodes, appeared on stilts and with agonizing lights and yielding to the crossbows of the centaurs gagged by the Beauties; they consisted of their seesaws before the agreement with the Master, who gave us her Hellenic manifestos, and no less to others. My uncle King Arthur carried news of the locked consonants of his string and with a riding crop for his steed, tangled in rows that tore his face into small abscesses on his face, which were superimposed on those capillaries of the sweat of Heaven. Blessed Lord, the knee had grafts of golden steel, the horns of the radio sol brego that were broken in its metaphysical pregnancy, and its food collector that had solid gold baths towards a tabernacle fussing through its mucous orifices of alfalfa with the a flavours of irradiated cattle . He paraded with his loving mount flying down his track and kept clueless, at times he ran so swiftly that he crossed evil omens with Joshua, he was seen as weak and white in insulting slanders, Tamayo; his friend, who was a Talamite native, followed him on horseback, his son rode the sheep every summer, passing wool of pure holy insignia of a healthy man.
Along the banks of the reeds, he came riding on a donkey, Edward my paternal uncle, the third of Adelimpia, came three steps before his donkey, and he counted three times before riding him with provisions for good waters, wrapped in an energetic fire of Saturday tobacco in his mouth in mourning, who lovingly watching over himself, looking at today towards a peak for his sheep, looking at them for a manger of borders and tiny hunching phrases of black song about legends of the offender, which tempted to show off invading their fields. He is to the right of his mother Adelimpia, and under the rib of his father Bernardolipo overflowing, giving sugar to the colt Dolly in the sunsets, bequeathing affection with syrup, and a thousand compliments in December of 9,900 AD, Joshua, I remained in shreds of pageantry and endless lives, I always said, my lady, here I bring you a peasant's soup in flower of primed twisted canvas, in this three-year period I must call them to dinner in past lands with sweet potatoes to eat and candlesticks of flying seeds, with eager candies of a crack and their thirsty mouths. Gentlemen, I am Edward, their son, I want to sleep in your arms, after escaping from my worst perfidious toothless bite that still hurts inside. After eating great cholesterols from all over the world, amidst the tools of my children I am, always putting a tobacco leaf caught in the scrawled pieces and in great coinciding strokes, in circles dancing to throw away the bad and broken places badly thought and done. When I get to the end I will cling to the Joshua habit and shout not to leave me alone in the middle of this world, without toasted flour, cheese and tobacco. I am not a malignant man, I am only like those of us who are far below, feeling footprints on my spine, and I do not tell my wife Molly, so that she does not lack chickpea flour for our children wrapped in regrets and ***** with hunger and light blue in goodness, like saints and media, but in the end with clear blue water in my glasses. I invite everyone to my table to dine on oceans and worlds of clear celestial light, because with this hand I break this piece; I am the Son of Adelimpia and the supplier. They brought me in anemone branches when the Lord's headache invaded him, when he felt nails in his hands, to the east of Eden, without steps or turgid edges and a rough runaway palfrey”

The Horcondising massif turned into a great mountain, Edward was in the limestone of some potters and followers of Joshua molding him, they began to bait the rope that merges the mountain range, with the valley at the foot of all the mapus, mud flowing from the monastic floods , here they polisonated in the stony atonement of each lamentable trunk. They say;… faramalla  demonion, would be with a Silfife facing the mass of the vital obstacle, with faded coffee fiber, smeared in wine and bread, with eternal vintage vine. Luccica, Vernarth's mother, tackles familiar corners, with anointed frames of fiction in irrational ergonomics…; in numerous steps that will reach your distinguished heart. An ocean of doubts has fallen due to the inheritance that has precarious injuries, of battered egos and scrubbed by undue ignorance. Mountain delusions and manias, which run through the fibrillated vigils of some soft ropes and their abundant bristles like the choppy of an echidna escaping as it tingles by my twisted temples ”. The Horcondising  tam tam modulates through its crater and its pale face of a perpetual cell. Towards the forgiveness of the primordial ones and the commiseration of the orb burying itself in creation, this sacred and over the pale Sudpichian region will rest, in the roots growling in capillaries of the carbonated earths and in its badly wounded footprints. Horcondising is in quarantine, the elevation of the constellations are hyperillusionible, they migrate Along with Albalalhue and Carnivorous, the succeeded nymph that extracts exudation from a flushed match in the palm of some ideas on rollers, higher up and on angular from other right angles. Toiling with her hands, and rubbing possessions with her mazote and her patronage full of rakes.

Etréstles says: “Beyond all metal of hatred of every god not heard, beyond all evil of timid hatred I have not heard. I hold the playful phrasing of Edenic song, which calls us in voices full of long journeys, especially on this day fading. Through the hollow, belts and picket rings breaking the timid lights of the last sunset.  Cardinals in envelopes of fragile strengths, mountains with borders and deposits in the last voluminous plagues on the mason's eye.  Binding themselves in a pile, with saffron nails in their ears, with moths that run through the unforgivable morphologies. Do not lose life, abandon all noisy fight in coalition with the uninhabited *** of coins, there are forty days left to say goodbye to the god Faramalla, who lies with closed tec, limps to his lost pupils, and the sky swirls over his day when nothing not fit for any drinkable air with light bulb. Horcodising loses millimeters within minutes and rising, towards harvests to harvests, they lose merged schedule of a time without a past, reviling themselves from a present of consanguineous evil with an abstinent future. Luccica; Vernarth's mother, she is a sylph dragged by the tempest moraines, being detached to a contemplation and intake of life. The membranes of the accordion burst, and between brittle passageways crying without union, succumb to the teachings of foolish fate, Luccica as a portion owes its origin to the sea, taking its physiognomic bark from a seal specimen of aqueous flattery, to frize it on a similar surface umlauts on the "u", with phosphorescent and indeclinable forges, making it a beautiful maternal nymph, like the beautiful female picking up a moon in her arms, clinging to a new hallucinatory satellite to engender. "Live and talk with your peer, her dazzling sneaks in and laughs at this prominent queen, to exhale on those who observe her."

End Ellipsis Chapter XXXI
Horcondising  Castle Reign - Sudpichian
Transversal Valley  the Ferments - Parapsychological Regression
Mandrake, the Wild Auction
Mandated this faux gremlin explorer
(alias Cliff Ford) donning reinforced
rubber baby buggy bumpers to dodge
any errant wild jaguar, ram, thunder bird,
bee in blue bonnet hood lamb, et cetera

and/or any cowl screen Fascia hissed
dee fender must be subject to an intense
hot grill, especially if grievous, ferocious,
egregious, deleterious threat to undermine
Democratic pillar, weltanschauung spoiler,

rocker, rims (sic) coarse sea cove dweller,
whose tired hubby capped, (re: proffering
a trim package) houses plenty of junk in
the trunk adorned with harried styled and
tailor made dust ruffle par excellent well

did assembly, who (if not consigned to a
crash test dummy existence), would present
an a door able latchkey cont hinge hint. Fuel
lush con tank cuirass culpable, deplorable,
and execrable fiendish human immigration

injustices (executed abhorrent auto de fe
incognito, nonetheless lock king figurative
gnarled horns with cognoscenti), where
innocent charges teary eyed. Like
a cracked glass, viz shatterproof wind

shield radiator, the plaintive inconsolable
crying babies alarmed Aunt Henna. Mass
media did radio this *******, tripped,
and trashed tragic travesty. No tuner then
atrocious, baseless, callous dirt deed done

dirt cheap, one loud speaker after another
took to the airwaves, and sundry tele
communications outlets. Sad doggone sonic
booms (representative of sub woofer)
soul fully bellowed forth broadcasting across

humungous flat screens appalling catastrophe
unfolding reminiscent of battery abuses
against scapegoats since time immemorial,
otherwise known as (ohm my dog) volt age.

I gauge how wealth (or lack thereof) constitutes
as distributor. Electronic timing controllers
(viv a vis the internet and/or virtual realty
simulates) function as ignition modus operandi
to communicate gross injustices renting asunder

heart wrenching agony engendering abysmal
leap into nothingness. Existence rendered moot
as despicable horrors inflicted upon deportees.
Thee footworn, forlorn foghorn troops (analogous
to stone temple pilots) unwittingly journey into

torturous labyrinth, herein monsters ******
suckling babes. A pained spotlight signals sense
sore re:us, nasty and brutal choking, that throttles
the psyches battered beyond thermostatic threshold
of tolerance. Now any Earthling with sense and sense

ability must heed this alarm and siren infringing
abominably primal tenets, ethos, credos aligning
power train, sans **** sapiens linkedin as
one organic entity.
what do you want to be called
A one non proffessional
that corns the intelligent
out of position but endowed
with ideas.
Married as a victim of misfortune
many times you walk away free
but time will shape a day
when the sun will shine from north

No one is sensible to you
only your word is taken as a breath
many are in severe injury of
your toxic thoughts and
malicious efforts.
Nothing works by your senses
all seems wrong with you.
A distributor of calamities
and a conquerer of peace
your not worth a name in
fear of killing its meaning and destiny
Bullet May 2020
Dumping my heart into dreams I would love to see if they are trying to **** me

The fuel that’s keeping me going can spark up a hood, in gulf the steer into flames

Distributor rings pop and all I have is a hand full of hopes and new spring days

But the deep blue paint chipped off the sea now rotates away from the rear view

Purple projects a new drive burnt into the ground from the heat of hell from the six feet we stand apart

My eyes peel back to to a blue face being a frame for just numbers and cloud chasing

So I place it in gear and then push fear into the mirror spreading orange and red solar flares in the headlights guiding the purple blue skies that backdrop the tracing rear lights of the fear in the past of our lifes
Kanak Kashyup Mar 2018
The silences comprised in the beautiful rhyme.
And repentance which are running out of time.
Defending the rebel against the predator.
Realize with destructive path and amity distributor.

Deliberately mixing selves in the awful lies' lime.
Affecting with falsehood doing self defined crime.
Until when? the untold utterance will be the interrupter.
Nails are stitching the daze and it remains only motivator.
Everything, each surrounding, just confusing!!
Mingoao Ba Feb 2021
Ancient wisdom



                            lies in

                            Bones



The StoneAge



                             didn't end



                             for lack

                             of stones







monster ~



                 monsters . .





                                    everywhere





                                                  whisper

    ­                                              in a many ear



                                     loud enough

                                     to stoke our fears



                                     playing games

                                     of truth or dare





monsters

                                 and

                                              their

       ­                           concubines





corrupt . .





                                   before

                                   we realize





monster ~

                                 monsters . . .





                                  telling truth





the many

                                 branches

                                 are the root





the leaves  . .





                                   that fall

                                   aren’t

                                   leaves

                                   at all



but ~



                                   the devil’s call

                                   to sacred fruit







monster ~

                                    monsters . . .





                                     play

                                              and

        ­                                                hide





                                     at . . .





                                    sleight





and





                                     hopscotched

                                                    ­truth



                                     in



                                     dead of night





monster ~

                                    monsters . . .




                                    held ~



                                                    my breath



                                                               ­ so I



                                                can't breathe





                                     and





                                    blind ~





                                                     my eyes



                                                          that I



                                                      don't see





they

               come

                                  for

                    ­                          me



                                 ­             I'm alone . . !





    all ~


                                  the monsters


                            are at home







when:



every

                 blessing

                                       is

                                                   a curse




                                                    every

     ­                                                                 ­   word

                                                    becomes­

                                                               ­           a

                                                   ­  verse





souls ~





                  have

                                   fallen

                                                 where

                                                          ­     they

                                                           ­               stand





                          in . .        





                                                               ­     ashened

                                                   ­   grey

                                                        ­            of

                                                 ­     no

                                                        ­           man's

                                                      land­



all my colours . .







                                          deeper shades ~





                                          of

                 ­                         sombre thought



                                          and



                                          darkened

           ­                               days





intent . .





                                          designed ~



                                                               ­ just



                                            to



                                                               ­  survive





lies . .



                  contrived ~

                                   to

                                           multiply





atomized~



                                           in



                                           the atmosphere

                                           as dust





oxidised~

                                            in



                                             the minds

                                                          ­        of men

                                              like rust







monster ~

                             monsters . .







                                                    promises . . . .






camouflaged truths ~





                                                    that’s

   ­                                                               al­l

                                                              ­               it



                                                     is . . .





The American Dream



                                                               ­            ain’t

                                                          ­    what

                                       it seems





it's just . . . .







                                         another






****** up ~







                                                 monster scheme . .



© mingoáo - 明 -

the Writings of Mingoáo Inc. is the exclusive agent, publisher-distributor of the Writings of Mingoáo. No part of the Writings exhibited herein may be copied, transcribed, reproduced nor transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, not by carrier pigeon, pony express, smoke signal, slingshot, sled dog, not even by alien spacecraft, nor stored by any information storage and/or retrieval system, past, present or future, nor translated, without the expressed written consent of the Author and Publisher. ~ Not to be Copied, Forwarded, Distributed, Shared Nor Transferred.
I am who i am
Who i was meant to
Be
There is no one like
Me
That can
Be me
That really know
Me like
I know me
I am who i am
An original
Not a copy
I'm the creator
not the distributor
maybe
maybe there'll be
A day
Where people
Learn that
They are who they are
For i will not force
Anything goo
Onto anyone
Just to get them to
Understand that
They are who they are
We are who they are
But the one
Thing
I want
people
To Understand is
that
I am
Who
I
Am
Arastas Feb 2018
Siphoned into dissent
I relinquish my contention
Debated in correlation
Insofar
The contemporary relinquishes the devised
Control not what is visible
The invisible rules over all realms

Betrayed by consciousness
The robot denial all of the proceeding
Conqueror of denial, distributor of confinement
Proffer me an offer
I wish to buy you, your soul and mind in its entirety
Babatunde Raimi Nov 2019
Mr. Chief Tester
Madam Major distributor
Hear the word today
Flesh and blood didn't reveal this
As you grow and age gracefully
Happily married to yours
Let your Hubby be your hobby
And let your Wifey be your WiFi
Am I communicating?
This is the word of wisdom
A prescription for a happy home
Stop sharing free hotspot
Different network might log in
And corrupt your major file
That's why it is called a private
"You hear abi you no hear?"
Or should I increase the volume?
Mingoao Ba Jan 2021
What if . . .





the floods

never came



and



the years of plenty



was just



propaganda



perpetrated

by pharaoh





I’m standing . .





at the river’s edge



and



for miles

there’s dust





sand . . . .





falls like rain



the exodus

never happened





plagues . . .





have come

and gone



famine



has left

a bitter taste

in my mouth



my bones are arid . .

saturated with thirst



my tears run dry

to carve canyons

in my cheeks





my saliva

is as glue



that sticks

my tongue



to the roof

of my mouth





there’s no way out

of this sin





the years of plenty

have succumbed

to years of naught





there’s no way in

even from within





I'm floating  . .


like moss


facedown ~


along the river's edge



grasping . .



for hollow reeds



already plucked . . !





they make paper

to tell this story





I drown again





even though . .





the floods

never came . . !



© mingoáo - 明 -

the Writings of Mingoáo Inc. is the exclusive agent, publisher-distributor of the Writings of Mingoáo. No part of the Writings exhibited herein may be copied, transcribed, reproduced nor transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, not by carrier pigeon, pony express, smoke signal, slingshot, sled dog, not even by alien spacecraft, nor stored by any information storage and/or retrieval system, past, present or future, nor translated, without the expressed written consent of the Author and Publisher. ~ Not to be Copied, Forwarded, Distributed, Shared Nor Transferred.
Mingoao Ba Jan 2021
How

do you choose

between

hell and high water


when . .


hell and high water
is the same place . . ?


do we breathe today . . ?

or

hold our breath
until tomorrow . . ?


anoxia . .
              is
                  divine
                     ­       in this reality . .

climate change
                          global warming

                          carbon saturation

                          cloning

over-medicated livestock

genetically engineered foodstock


grainstock . .

              never before seen
              in nature

meat . . !
              grown in labs . .

            sliced up
            and packaged neatly
            for consumption

the prognosis . . ?

          bodies . .
          laid out
          on slabs

genetically modified . . !

        is . .

              just
              another lie

        for . .

              ya gonna die . !

                                    if ya eat this ****

blood pressure
pressures

an
ill functioning
healthcare system

into . .

                heart attacks
                strokes
                erectile dysfunction

and . .

                e v e r y t h i n g

that ain’t
functioning right

                  the control valve
                  controls nothing

for . .

the setup
is a
build up

                  born of greed
                  and corruption


scorched earth farming:

                  strip mining

mountains
that
were forever

                  cry . . !

as rivers
flow
the waste
of greed
and
indifference

                  over-harvesting
       ­           the seas

flood waters rise . .

the ground
shakes
beneath us

                the seas
                have turned
                against us

to wash away
the disease

that is

        us . .

                from
                the land

the air
poisons
in its wake

                    fossil fuel . .
                    fuels death . . !

an irreversible
circumstance

we’re creating
our own
slow burn

                    reward
                    for
        ­            contempt
                    and sacrilege

sea ice melt
permafrost gone

as . .

glaciers
            glide
                      into
        ­                    a sea
                                      somewhere

all levels rise . !

                      deforestation . .

                      vanishing wetlands

                      soil erosion

now . . . !

                      the Desert Amazon . . !

coral reefs ~

                d i e . .

aquifers
dry

                  we are the canaries
                  in the coal mine

n o  m or e . .

shall
we dance
in the snows
of
Kilimanjaro

                    unleashed . .

untold
horrors
frozen
in
time

            e o n s
                        released . .

havoc’s
          reign


one
does not ****
one’s mother . . !


a n d ~

              w h er e . .


          did all

                    the honey bees go . . ?


© mingoáo - 明 - the Writings of Mingoáo Inc. is the exclusive agent, publisher-distributor of the Writings of Mingoáo. No part of the Writings exhibited herein may be copied, transcribed, reproduced nor transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, not by carrier pigeon, pony express, smoke signal, slingshot, sled dog, not even by alien spacecraft, nor stored by any information storage and/or retrieval system, past, present or future, nor translated, without the expressed written consent of the Author and Publisher. ~ Not to be Copied, Forwarded, Distributed, Shared Nor Transferred

— The End —