"ecclesiastical" poems
This is the Last Straw –
and Something About Sacred Buckets of Holistic Ice Water
****** predators, human smugglers
Starvation in the Sudan, civil war
in Syria, mass executions in China
Journalists murdered almost everywhere
Fashionable infanticide, homelessness
Unemployment, urban terrorism
Mass ****** school shootings, wildfires, racism
An unstable national government
Anti-Semitism, border desperation
Riots, arson, ecclesiastical corruption
**** alcoholism, historical cleansing
Skinheads, abuse, Khardassianistas
Volcanos, the death penalty, free verse
Affluenza, Jerry Springer, The View
Herbal tea, antifa, anti-antifa
And the soul-sucking existential despair
Of inspirational singer-songwriters:
Nah, not a bit worried about plastic straws
But I must go now; The Voices are telling me
To pour a bucket of ice water over my head
(As long as it’s not a plastic bucket)
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
I can't escape the thought of you lately it seems
I hear Thrice, Icon for Hire, Avenged Sevenfold, 7eventh Time Down,
Sent By Ravens, hear them everywhere
See your brother in the store
See your mom at church
See a guitar
See the color red, the color green
Think of Christmas and what you meant to me
*Someone who waited for me to reach comfort
Someone who left me too soon
You accepted every piece of me
You played the game, where we let the world laugh*
The thought of skipping
When I dance, the salsa, anything
Watching the Sox game
Walking past you're old spot
*Remembering everyday that seemed to last forever and end
too quickly*
Every time I write the letter 'X,' your favorite
Think of green eyes, and how we said yours secretly were
Think Taylor Swift and the joke that you two were destined
My birthday comes and how you were the only one who
remembered that year
Each time I still wear the perfume you bought me
Whenever I think of movies and how you drove out to be with me
See a bicycle or think long walks
Hear music in a language I don't understand
Get frustrated at Ecclesiastical Latin, because you do understand
Hide from the violence, because you grew up with it too
Think of leaving
Think of silence
Think of lies
Think of empty promises
Think of "I'll come back for you"
Think of calculus
And how you are such a nerd
And I stare at my paper
At these nonsensical equations
Of calculus
Of us
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
i want to feel it
the pain
the hurt
make me beg
and surrender
play with me
light my fire
stoke the desire
i’ll lose control
burn in lust
at your touch
get me wet
release me
from the puritanical
ecclesiastical shame
raise your voice
punish
humiliate me
sexually
it turns me on
tell me sternly
i’ve been naughty
absolve me
of my carnal sins
Dec 27, 2020
Dec 27, 2020 at 11:27 AM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
I was possessed by a demon so lazy,
He left the Priest feeling slightly hazy.
He wanted some ecclesiastical action,
But this Demon didn't give him no satisfaction.
My Priest said "you've got to stick it to him!"
So I took us both to the local gym.
I did some cardio and did some weights,
I stayed there until really very late.
Finally, when doing some cross-training,
My chest started straining,
And a voice (not mine) wailed like a Banshee,
"The power of exercise compels me!"
So that was how my Demon was exorcised;
Bloodless, sweaty Holy exercise.
Now I'm a major fitness fanatic
Thanks to forces oh so Satanic!
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
*to further my point, as an eager reader in
a catholic school, reading about
the gnostic heretics, wondering
with my theology tutor upon the question
asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics
influenced mohammad on the sly?
i mean, they too believed a phantom walked
among men, and a phantom was crucified?*
my confirmation didn't take place
in a cathedral, as was due course for all of
us in being schooled, by a bishop
in brentwood cathedral,
i opted out... my confirmation came
in a russian orthodox cathedral,
in st. petersburg, when i watched
people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm,
with the priest mumbling
toward a golden altar, as typical in
the tradition, buttocks towards the people
or as in the western tradition
reciting in latin, before the nationalists
came and spoke the gospel in each
designated tongue so people understood,
a bit like having your back turned
against the people - speaking in latin -
and when i sat i the church
to listen to the choir singing,
some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me
to stand up, and pay respect to the golden
altar... he told me to stand up!
what cheek... what barbarism... only
in russia... i had to stop being bewildered
by the beauty of song and listen to
a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of
gold... THEN i was confirmed...
donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving!
mind the fact that i've seen the greatest
degradation of mysticism take place...
the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along...
in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along,
the idiots reminded me of it...
you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname...
you're educated: confirmation name...
that takes four spaces of consideration...
so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils,
folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces
of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god...
but only in writing... first name, baptismal name,
confirmation name, surname...
a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing...
same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw...
but experience-wise... un-original to the ****
not even a clone... not able to experience major
historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself...
a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior
if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper...
clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible...
too many inter-actants along the way
can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone...
different mr. john smith... NEXT!
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
I can't sleep. I don't want to sleep. I don't know which it is but it's happening, now and infinitesimally forever my eyes are open and not shutting down for the day, not recharging, not doing anything but waiting for something to see and perceive and solve, a problem to appear before them and present itself begging to be taken in and toyed with like a Rubik's cube. I don't want to sleep because sleep is giving up on the day, it's saying the day is over and it's giving up the chance to accomplish the innumerable tasks yet to be accomplished before I sleep that I haven't done and won't do if I sleep now, if I lie down in that bed and pull covers over my head and let myself drift away. I don't want to drift away, can't let it happen, can't let go of control over really the only thing I have left to control which is when and if I go to sleep so I don't, I force myself not to, I expunge the records of thought from my head into a text box and hope that the soft rattling that had droned there softens because now after all of this my eyelids get heavy and I may have to let sleep win, give up the day, defeated, fight again tomorrow because I'm tired. I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting, fighting against the minute tedium tripping along, fighting against transcendental ecclesiastical endlessness, tired of fighting when all I do is get bloodied and bruised, tired of fighting when I can't win because I'm tired. Rest now. Fight again tomorrow.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it
without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?
never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted
this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking
the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard
because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,
the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
Spirituality
spir·i·tu·al·i·ty \ˌspir-i-chə-ˈwa-lə-tē\
The quality or state of being connected to, the universe;
Often confused with the ecclesiastical laws.
A form of Biology as a belief; the Biology of belief.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Through the centuries, ecclesiastical types have called poets deviants and inferred we would burn in Hell for our heresy. I've often wondered what the rhymes of a condemned poet might look like...
#1
The serpent got
a ***** wrap
as well as did
the Jews
And if you read
between the lines
you won't believe
The news
#2
As I'm not
a Christian
I think it
quite odd
That I should
be punished
by a biblical
God
#3
God the father
and his boy
appear to find
the greatest joy
deciding who
will sing or fry
in pits of Hell
or Heaven’s sky
Me thinks I’d
rather burn in Hell
for truth be told
I don't sing well
Besides in Heaven’s
realm I hear they’ve
put a ban on wine
and beer
#4
Scribbled notes
on wrinkled pages
offer up my
rants and rages
To the gods
both big
and small
who really
don't exist
at all
#5
Going to Hell
is not my intention
For Hell I believe
is your little
invention
Ingeniously
Crafted for
scaring the
masses
By threatening
Flame if they
don't kiss your
*****
#6
Such a simple
happenstance
No books to
study true
No condemning
sermons from
the everlasting
Jew
And since
His love
is only for
the chosen
and the few
I think I'll pass
on Sunday Mass
I've better things
to do
#7
Galileo’s castrated
brilliance shackled
to an empty cross
as demonic paramours
burn in the city square
#8
Rest assured
the herd will
follow the absurd
proclamations’
and the institution's
philosophical solution
to the daily grind
that binds us all
to this stalled
morality we
have mistaken
for God
#9
'Peace on earth
and love thy neighbor'
Cried the man with
cross and saber
Even as he slaughtered
millions for the crime
of pagan birth
#10
Cups and saucers
filled with gold
but not a cent
may we behold
for we are not
among the few
selected by the
ancient Jew
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
O Lord, I have purposed in my spirit
to sing of Your greatness and mercy!
Before You I humbly bow and kneel;
with my tongue, I exalt only Thee!
The enemy constantly surrounds me;
my joy they look to slyly steal.
You are my Maker and I’m the clay,
previously molded upon Thy Potter’s wheel.
Since Your words drip from my heart,
no longer can I remain silent.
Use me to write this poetry, filled…
with messages that are “heaven sent”.
Stand mightily over this blue planet,
let Your shadow cover this globe;
remind everyone of Your Presence;
clothe Your people with ecclesiastical robes.
Being one of Your Children, I too serve You,
as a sanctified priest of Your holy nation.
Knowing that my identity is found in You,
I’ll never consider yielding… my determination.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Psa 23, 57; Jer 18:6; Isa 61:10, 64:8
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
One dreary September day
Emperor Manuel Komninos
felt his death was near.
The court astrologers -bribed, of course- went on babbling
about how many years he still had to live.
But while they were having their say,
he remebered an old religious custom
and ordered ecclesiastical vestments
to be brought from a monastery,
and he put them on, glad to assume
the modest image of a priest or monk.
Happy all those who believe,
and like Emperor Manuel end their lives
dressed modestly in their faith.
1.5k
False prophets, you dig our graves with sinister divinations,
Bestow unrepentant indignation, and neglect to hide your shallowness.
Cast condescending shadows from high upon your sanctimonious mount, but
We wear our pride; our faith and love, our shrouds, and we will not be buried in the night.
Oh, I say woe unto them that call evil good and substitute darkness for light.
Oh, weary we may be, but forsaken we are not. Tread lightly when with lust and greed you choose to cast your lots.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
I could never be Raglan the knife man
nor a slippery Thames eel.
I haven't enough apologies
that heed wings.
In the act of caprice
borne musket and grape
I floored Thomas Avery,
Tavern proprietor
who lay cold as ecclesiastical stone,
having raptured my Ussela
in cheery Bishopsgate.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Anathema: Cursed by Ecclesiastical Authority
She blamed me for her excommunication
She blamed me for her banishment
She blamed me for her ostracization
She blamed me for her condemnation
She blamed me for her fear
She blamed me for her shame
She blamed me for her loneliness disgrace humiliation suffering
She blamed me for her pain
She blamed me for her agony
She blamed me for her dishonor
She blamed me for her punishment
She blamed me for her tribulation
She blamed me for her immolation
My name is Anathema.
She is my mother
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 7:24 PM UTC
in italy, there were fascinating times while reminiscing about how mesmerizing the feminine foreign specimen populace.
gazing at feminine foreign beauties i saw while staring at the multitudes beyond them made me know they were a perfect ace.
a monastery would educate me in the clergy as i walked up steps, my firm grip ceased to coexist with my ecclesiastical tomes and they went off steps that were steep.
a foreign gentle *** appears out at the corner of my eye behind a ruined wall, and for a minute, she bit her index finger nail in accordance with her beautiful white teeth.
as soon as her eyes connect with my eyes, i knew there was a visual connection going on between us two; the attention to details, the physical aspect of ****** human interest.
we continued to look at each other for over an hour and i had such an attraction to this young tan brunette, brown-eyed foreigner who had a t-shirt logo of a moon crest.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
The Hindu girl was very poor.
Christianity offered her a better life.
The church bribed her to Christianity.
All she had to do was very simple.
She was very beautiful and slim.
All clergy wanted her to be their exclusive Ecclesiastical Ecdysiast.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:03 AM UTC
Water flows by,
Quietly polite.
Green under sunlight,
Silver at night.
Is that my monarch's head
Shimmering between wakes?
She looks down and kisses Georgian rooftops.
She dives and twists her celestial face.
But as rain falls my monarch distorts,
And in the first snows she poses for me.
And as we celebrate new solstice a hail of thin ankles bruises the water.
Fish dart from them.
Sharp stones bury themselves so as not to offend.
I remember my feet in there...
All the times comes past here.
All the times yet to come.
I cross a bridge and the town's vein is out of sight.
I breathe the smell of ecclesiastical ceremony
And the cut-grass stench of various friendships nurtured and deflowered.
I mimic footprints that I've pounded into the ground.
The same drunk campaign.
I drink the river and become its flavid run-off.
Water flows by,
Timeless in flight.
Not at the front of my mind,
But in sight
As I recross the bridge.
I'm accustomed to its murky silence.
The distant, sporadic car horns.
Avoided emergencies, obnoxious goodbyes.
I hear them all.
I smell fuel emissions and nocturnal suffering.
I taste staling alcohol and summer's fruits.
I see the town that has cradled me.
I pick at its foliage and try to feel something.
I'll remember praying for floodwater.
I'll remember plains and peaks.
I'll remember the wall that can't hold it all.
The long, loud day
And the long, quiet sleep.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
*now baptism i couldn't avoid, i took the holy communion because i was swayed by the fact that i played the xylophone in the nativity play, not dumb enough to play joseph or a shepherd, but by the time confirmation came i protested, having just finished a book on the gnostic heretics, and siding with them didn't take up a wholly developed agreement package to kneel and **** some geezer off: why is it that prayer rituals in monotheism represent ****** positions and we're all suddenly women? ah right, god's a man, i mean islam is just as good, doggy style prayer formation, and by the wailing wall ******* to and fro without the bending of the knees; all this devotion is making my spine bent again to use the knuckles to walk; and yes, the standard of education in english primary schools is very much equal... after that it drops off somewhat, even though i could consider the catholic school i went to progressive with its adamant intention of teaching the sciences, it later became an academy and clearly focused on science and technology, and not humanism under the watchful eye of theology.*
i'm not even serious about
latin citations,
i'm making a mockery citing
as i do the fact that i went
to a roman catholic school
and left it without being
confirmed and not an ounce
of latin in my cheek:
there always has to be someone
speaking in the ******
anti-ecclesiastical anyway.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Here’s my question:
Don’t daughters lope their mules?
However non-existent
They too surely must bend the rules.
Surely it’s not only guys
Who secretly, daily slap their laps.
If so, would you bluenoses
Quickly and firmly shut your yaps?
There are so many things
Boys are not supposed to ever do
Like farting and belching
And all kinds of gods to apologize to.
We have to fold napkins
And keep our elbows off the table.
The list seems to grow.
I’m not sure I will ever really be able.
Adhering to what it takes
In life to keep myself perfectly decent
Seems to involve rules
Both ancient, ecclesiastical and recent.
I must put the lid down
Because, it seems, women can’t do it.
Hold the door open for them
Because, alone, they can’t go through it.
Give your seat up on a bus
Because even if they are younger than I
Women are the weaker ***
And I must be much stronger, I’m a guy.
And there literally hundreds
Of words I can’t say and shouldn’t think.
Now if only the women of the world
Would outlaw me getting near the kitchen sink.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
A bitter poison spiked with the blood of a
thousand sages ebbs in a chalice at the foot
of the altar.
These soft ripples guide fools the way to oblivion.
Liquid solitude cascades over the parishioners
leading many to believe in the myth of inner
peace.
By morning all will grasp reality for a transitory
instant, cursing their miserable lives while praying
in earnest for autumn's obscure redemption.
By nightfall, they will return to the temple...
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 9:05 PM UTC
In the heart of the fire a temple burns higher
Call me a liar
Do you believe the same as they deceive?
Instinct over spirit recieved
bested by the animalistic quality to falter from taking charge of the fallacy or to clear a path for the bard that beckons to be more than an aspect of frivolity
diminished by ecclesiastical polity
Thine ego spreads like a **** among the flowers growing faster with an unquenchable thirst for power devoted to consumption and the benefit of itself til sour and nothing else
Thus creating an afterimage that resembles all that we desire with all that we pretend to be
Half the ecstasy wired, that we could actually free higher from what comes naturally, divine to masters who wield compassion and invulnerable humility
as a weapon of civility
Surpass the masses' ability
Grasp the clasp of immortal nobility
Endire and outlast the harassment willingly to channel all the blessings of grace it will carry thee
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
WE DON'T HAVE THE TIME
FOR ASTRONAUTICAL
ARCHAEOLOGY OR GEOLOGY!
IN NAUTICAL TERMS
COPERNICUS SAID THAT
THERE'S NO EAST OR WEST
WITHIN THE GEOMETRIC
CONSTELLATION OF THE STARS...
THERE IS NO ARCHAEOLOGY ON MARS
THERE'S ONLY GEOLOGY -
WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR
ASTRONAUTS PLAYING THE GIMMICK
OF GEOLOGISTS...
IF THERE'S NO ARCHAEOLOGY WORTH
INSPECTING ON MARS,
THEN ALL GEOLOGY WILL
ONLY PROVIDE US A GEOLOGY
we could easily find carbon dating on earth...
mind you, didn't we like ******* too much?
WE DON'T HAVE THE TIME -
WE DON'T HAVE THE TIME -
UNLESS YOU WANT IT TO BECOME
A CINEMATIC PROPHESY OF
THE RICHEST GET OFF FIRST AND
BY BEING FIRST THE ONLY ONES TO GET OFF;
THERE'S ABSOLUTELY NO *******
REASON TO FICTIONALISE OUR SITUATION;
GET IT?!
I GET IT... THERE'S ONE PANIC ATTACK
PRIOR TO THE TSUNAMI, AND NO ONE MINDS...
THEN THEY ARE KNEE-DEEP IN
SEAWATER, THEN "SUDDENLY" EVERYONE
REMEMBERS THE WEATHERMAN PROPHETIC
ABOUT THE WEATHER ON MONDAY
AND "CARING" WHETHER YOU TOOK OUT
YOUR UMBRELLA OR NOT...
AND YOU THINK... SHOULDN'T I'VE HAD
A WASTED THOUGHT RATHER THAN WASTING
TIME IN THE UNDERGROUND LABYRINTHS
DURING THE BLITZ... WELL... A WASTED
TIME, BUT HARDLY A WASTED SPACE,
SINCE YOU'RE THERE, A SINE OR A COSINE
CURVE OF CONTINUITY...
AND NOT A TANGENTS CURVE OF:
HERE ONE MINUTE / GONE THE NEXT...
well, wouldn't we all like to enshrine our politics
as the pinnacle, and our lack of co-operation
as the dire foreseeable exclusion to mind the
ecclesiastical Eden of our hopes ****** minding
the flag of Wales prior to the unearthing of
the fire-breathing lizard skeletons; at least we gave hope
to the third and last world - who will lazily
accept its fate as if a brightly lit room
and the mammalian candle extinguished without
a sadistic approach to industrialise the poll of death.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
Feel the rhythm of those who row longboats from Scandinavian shores, in their plundering quests of arson and ****
Although stalactites may be used in the same manner as an icicle in order to commit ******
it is necessary to acknowledge that one weapon leaves a trace of evidence whilst the other evaporates into the firmament.
The wind is truly wild, as she kisses our skin with force, amidst the swell of marine visions beyond Ljodhus, Ivist and Skid, where Gaels reside in monastic solitude.
Have you ever been to the shores of Iona?
Please do not cut off your nose to spite your face, in the same manner as those nuns, who sought to be unappealing to Nordic barbarians.
The magic numbers are 795 and 802.
Therefore, if we seek to withstand the forces of contemporary evil, I suggest that we swiftly engage with Celtic Druids as they are our ancient forefathers.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC