Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Onoma Feb 2015
There's a vine shaped as lightning--
grapes bittersweet, supple...come to it,
each an epiphany.
Crushed, their red skin lets out juice,
life-yield.
Sealed up and put away...the body knows
its blood, wine-empurpled, crimson throb.
At the wrists, at chest, at temples, at neck.
A synchronized pulse keeps in touch,
batting wings.
It is love that's prepared...to move what's
been born of it.
Embodied to embody--there you are my love.
In shock we've been sutured One.
A forever downed to earth, to imbibe drunken
passion--to keep the body from falling over
lest by love.
No cusp more steady than two lips touching
tale--an Edenic one.
Yet--the more we juxtapose bodies, something
ruptures--hands go wild to clutch that ******.
In shame we block the parts that entered
one another so freely.
Shadows are broken light--love can be
prodigiously cruel, but who among us has heart
to expel such cruelty?
Thusly...the heart drinks deep...to benumb.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i only noticed it today - from the wide opening spaces,
the scarce forests and horses grazing -
where everyone around here looks very much feral -
and even behaves feral - it's sometimes eye-opening
seeing the big city - the rat channels - the avoidance
of staring each other in the eyes -
the number of mobile phones in almost constant use -
a grant antopia that London and other cities have
become - behemoths in their own right -
but what's most eye-opening is the perfect skin
of the populace - i can almost claim a Joseph Merrick
appearance - relativity has nothing to do with it -
the 21st century and the Victorian era are completely
two different swarms of fish - Londoners' perfect skin,
with mine like fields of Ypres during world war two -
or quiet simply: mine the moon-face - littered with
tiny bullet incisions - even if i wanted, on this
basis i wouldn't land an executive job - an office job -
these people look for pampered - so docile even -
busy docile, but so docile - and once in a while you
see a glimmer of what it's all about - a public show
of affection - a couple lost in a moment between one
underground train and the next on the tube platform -
it's mesmerising seeing such moments, such is
their rarity - for you know judging by the overall
consensus - that so too is rare an old couple - as also
a family outing - the consensus speaks a different urbanity -
not such Edenic delights in the firestorm of concrete
and sweat and fast-food outlets, overpriced beer and overpriced
coffee - priced according to the postcode and the view.

but enough of that... the ballet! the first time i went
to a ballet it was to see *swan lake
-
i was put off - a sour taste on my tongue, i thought
i'd give all future ballets a pass -
then Bolshoi came along out of the blue -
i had someone else's ticket, so i went for free -
i could be all hot-air ponce puffing that it's Bolshoi -
and as if by miracle... i fell in love -
the main reason? when i went to see the swan lake
it was like watching an enlarged centipede
stomping on the stage - it was staged in the Royal
Albert Hall... they also play tennis in the Royal Albert...
the ground is too hard... when the swan lake
ballerinas pranced en pointe the centipede was out...
it even managed to overpower the orchestra -
the great en pointe centipede of royal albert hall -
the difference! the difference! when ballet becomes
silent - effortless - as it was today at the royal opera
house with a softer stage - given the play, i was
expecting the ballet dancers to imitate a bull's hoof
hitting the ground before charging - that came,
since we had matadors on stage - Don Quixote was
there too (obviously), but more in a comic role
as sheer presence - if the character danced, the whole
adaptation would have been a complete failure -
ballet and romance - who would Don Quixote dance
with, a ******* windmill? he's cameo compared
to the dancers - and all the more effective, since the
opening scene is wholly dedicated to him,
when he decides to go on his quest - Sancho runs into
his house with stolen meat, three women are after him,
so Sancho decides to hide under Don Quixoté's table  
(yes, they pronounced it with an acute e, otherwise
tongue-waggling business-as-usual); but to be honest
act i through to half of act ii doesn't feel like ballet at
all - not like swan lake felt like by comparison,
there are accents of ballet - accents as in that soloists
performing with what would otherwise be a bubonic
plague of other ballerinas missing - not to mention
that some of the soloist feats are done with the legs
being kept a secret / i.e. hidden - we get flamenco
dancers, not ballerinas - i came here to see Bolshoi
flamenco? well that's the good part - then all the
Spanish allure vanishes - phoom! puff! it's gone -
Don Quixote is taken ill and collapses in a forest -
loses consciousness and wakes into a dream -
boom! 30 odd ballerinas on stage dressed in tutus
of light azure - out of nowhere in the middle of act ii
and all the way through to the end of act iii we have
pure ballet - all the techniques, from
a (pirouette) à la second - a brisé - a fouetté -
a male grand jeté - everything you can imagine basically.
thank god Don Quixote doesn't dance but is the cameo
vehicle moving things along - fighting with windmills
or dancing ballet with windmills? i'm not too sure now,
it's more fun i suppose having actually read the book -
in the ballet the windmills' debacle comes much later
than in the book - it's like this two part story -
just before Don Quixote collapses in the forest and
the ballet begins - we have three giants swirling on stage.
on a less gratifying note though - so many Russians
in the house - i guess paying to see Bolshoi in Moscow
must be expensive, cheaper to fly to London and
see it here - but then again... why am i surprised or remotely
bothered? i could have been as level headed in my
analysis as Kierkegaard at the theatre - but i can't -
the music is too intoxicating, the body language too
architecturally sound and impenetrable -
all i can say with an honest heart:
DON'T GO TO SEE BALLET AT THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL
(you'll be watching a centipede dance),
SEE IT AT THE ROYAL OPERA HOUSE -
can't get a better summary than that.
Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!
Wonthelimar  Ibic Rings
ConnectHook Sep 2015
►☼◄
ओं मणिपद्मे हूं

I sing the Self – that mystic fable.
Lie to Truth as Cain to Abel.
Inner blight of fallen man,
enemy of Heaven’s master-plan:
your inner SELF! The guiding light
of Luciferian deception.
Mystic wisdom’s blinding sight;
purveyed as truth: obscene confection.
Listen well – please spare your soul
and sidestep this, the blackest hole.
Your self is sewage! Look within;
behold that putrid old abyss
then dive down deep into your sin
the fallen source of carnal bliss.
Inspire.  Inhale in full the stench
from deep within the septic trench
unsounded depths, a cesspool’s source
depravity released in force.
Apart from mercy undeserved
on those whom Heaven has reserved.
Apart from Christ, your sordid purpose;
jewel whose bright refracted surface
glistens, beckoning to the feast
yet never can appease the beast.
I hail your lie, oh Inner Self
you silted continental shelf –
(or are you more a surge oceanic:
roiling undertow satanic)?
New Age myth, and Hindu idol
fallen god whose pull is tidal…
Brahman, Atman, Buddha, babble
lies repackaged for the rabble…
How deep do you intend to go
into our post – Edenic show?
How far the bottom? Whence the end?
Explore ! You’ll never comprehend.
You’ll find still worse – and yet descend.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/01/02/new-age-sewage-your-sinner-self/

JDG Feb 2019
Newlyweds honeymooning
on dreamy secluded islands
in lush tropical climes
a manifestation
of an unconscious desire
to return to their pre-fall Edenic state
to be Adam and Eve
joyfully frolicking ****
in a warm, wet,
earthy, green paradise
for all time
Goddess of my Awakening dawn. Let me observe your illuminated skin, the divine and sacred scroll on which God wrote my mysteries.

Your golden follicles, the infinite world light receptors and creation, are the crowns on the letters of the Holy alphabet noted on your wonderful body.

Your nakedness is esoteric and when you gently Spending my eyes, revealest your sphinxes, angelic hieroglyphs are the notes in the score sung by Serafim.

Goddess of the dawn of my awakening. Your lips are the divine Edenic sources of heavenly delight. Your kisses are horseback riding chariot igneous creatures, souls sparks coming through my mouth to rest in my spirit. What could be more sacred than emerjantes kisses of your mouth? What could be more divine than your beauty and the light of your sensuality? Es, therefore, the object of my poetry, awakened in my mind the esoteric view of your magnificent *******.

Goddess of my Awakening dawn, Princess Christed rof aurora of my soul. Kiss me and make me your scribe, the immortal annotator of your mystical sensuality.
Esotérika II - The Poetry Of The Wakening by Deepak Sankara Veda
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down
...
                           John Lennon

A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked *****
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.

Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:

Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, ***** and tumefaction.

Laurie Vargas, mouth full of ***,
Spread for us now your Aztec ***
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your ******* eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other *****
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)

I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless *****-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.

An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own ***.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)

Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When *** has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?

I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.
Laurie Vargas was born in 1983
in Los Angeles, California, as Ruth Ayon.
(Some sources indicate Guadalajara Mexico as her birthplace)

Visit her terrible glory:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6pyZ0rGfnM
Klauss Ritkke collector leaves and representative of Beggars, with their 76 autumn and semi-dead body of downstroke of insect. I used to walk through its narrow streets serenades as liquid pearls, as clusters of dreams omnipotent ogres and fetishes; owners of old Avignon, iridescent moist soil marshes bringing minerals liquids Gotthard massif, ancient drains into the Rhone. Owner dreams and curses weak burst administrators of the house of God.

         August 4 in the year of our Lord 1617, when it was asset Klauss cleaning the largest stained glass, heard heated dialogues between Fraile and Gentleman, who was in another time assistant clergy? You could approach Klauss and listen more clearly their conversation, until the Friar Andrew, stammering, Raymond Bragasse demanded indulgence, or one or the other.

Fray Andrés : How many times hopefully I struggled to reform you ... Raymond!
  
'O virga ac diadema diabolus thirst ...!!
  'Oh ****** the Devil smiled ...!!

Raymond  : It is to live more question if I failed something, take me to the sulfurous emanations from Averno. But my faith lies mildewed on the seabed, sacred myth ... my truth, and my beloved Marielle ... Meanwhile,

Klauss envisaged to play the window and looked her tongue to pray for them. Fray Andrés, paced back and forth wondering what to do...?
Raymond  : There are fifteen thousand demons possessing my body ... fifteen thousand demons to attack the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary ...!                

Fray andrés : Oh great cause ... How I have to ****** your soul whose darkness of flashed light ...!?

Raymond  : Marielle was my light, my Eve Edenic, admirable land. Now, it's my I spell, my blindness or my constant bleed sharp, not knowing where to elapse...?

         ...To a memory that night, that dismal night, giving up my final vows of faith and consecration of my soul. I broke my bonds and ecclesiastical chores all by Marielle noble descendant of the Quentinnais.

            Never believe such grief in my fate I do love her, but his misfortune was to meet me. That night when I went to the edge of her house, I walked through the kitchen window. Everyone was asleep, except the albi-blue reflection of the last gasps of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I thought rescue and salvage something from those cheeks kissed by me, but their heart wiping her heart and lungs.
     It is possible to recall the last roses I took her hands.   Danced with her, next to the old hymn and lamentation of prestidigitations made by the monk, played alongside cartomancy having abolished the minute of darkness take her with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her, and snatched me death! His parents hated the mere fact of having their priest ruled by a wicked heart, so I turned to the pagans and dark gods to heal Marielle, and his heart transplant it for mine.
              
Since that day, I'm still burning in hell polisatanic to take little breath of kindness and seize transparent liquid plaguing their existence and serene Diadem metal to learn that his friend possessed by the devil fall into any infection endemic evil ...; endemic of his love, crossed himself when he saw that turned into a horrible one.

Humble as leaves in the garden became the Bible leaves torn from the bound fillings. Saints lepers shriveled down her columns. Heaven proclaimed hemorrhages and wind festering stinking gases, which in the sky sprouted in clusters clots on the Papal Household.

          Fray Andrew threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed, and asked the Demons who feared more ...?. A question answered this question Demons, which fell shrieking vertical down the aisle ... and.... fell, rose!

              
       Klauss fell to the ground in horror, and the demons not to respond, fell into tears and regret shaped so plaintive and poignant, many dark beings holed up in fixtures and embankments, they began to mourn moved by natural compassion ... and saying pained voice by the mouth of the possessed...:

...Andrés, Andrew ... ... have mercy on us!
              
Meanwhile, Klauss ran away screaming the place ... could be heard in the distance ... Marielle ... have mercy on us!

         Sparkling lights fell on the dome, covered with orange and creamy luzbels horror. Apertures fulminations betrayed contained emancipate the shackled muses leaping vacuum; discouraging reddening chinks bad ..., saturating every form, every place, and every interlocutory benign breeze.
Most animals vomited on the walls; carbonated some ****** walls and curdling the soul of the people. Other remains of vomiting sulphurous radiated papal house, initialing the firing squad diabolical image of Raymond and Fray Andrés; they are swallowed by the Cancerbero. So flayed bats were issued by the campanile, mistaking the red sunset in penitence with blood dripping thick alleged by the Buttress and reach a churchyard to embryo.
            
Got home, tightly closed the latch, feeling strangely his wife Danianne; which saw his face isolation. Then he went to his bedroom and closed the curtains, warning yellow lights in progressive outlook towards a corner of the mirror. Then he lay down on the bed and prayed for himself and others ... "Today, when I walked by my office and my prayer my clothes pilgrim incense drove away my voice ... as if Fray Andrés, still whispering my ears..."

I close my eyes listening to litanies and prayers ...
         O ****** by virtue of your rosary, directs these enemies of mankind to respond to my question...!
                
Klauss saw the exorcism using the mirror. He made a prayer, came a radiant ears, nose and mouth of the possessed flame. Fire flowed like laba of the Holy Cross, which destroyed the wicked and the most worthy wisdom worked against the satanic specter fire and hot rosary fell on the hot heads Fraile and Raymond. It was what translated his shadow in her room.

         Klauss Rittke, returning the next day moistened his clothes by the dense fog that covered the sacred place, then when picking up     leaves plucked Bible found a Diadem with an initial contained a    backwards W, whose image pointed to Marielle triumphing evil. He   tried to leave but nothing left pulled, so refugee took the   diamond and warily Diadem led her pocket.                                                          ­                          

Little bit could do that dark and rainy day, as an insurrectionary devotion that day begged her angelic singing to heaven; that enveloped the sky in order to transport to the cemetery to sleep next to their parents.  Diadem virtue to useful lives and reigns in the footsteps passerby Baal runaway spirits. All with their malodorous footsteps, they vomited and flying in higher meridians, like the giddy exorcism in the house of the universal Shepherd.
           The same day, August 5, 1617, Klauss arrived tired with the diadem cast in her hand. Thus, ceased to exist and its long sleep would walk with his white robe and crown throw with his eyes came from the Sea blankets the oceanographic serpentuous within Marielle, whose hairnets they are containing its essence. His agony lasted three days, and around Avignon no who could wear mourning. His children and wife lost their voice to utter.

Go in peace Benedict Klauss...!
KLAUSS RITTKE FROM EXORCISM -  THE ******  PURE LOVE IN BETWEEN RAYMOND  BRAGASSE  AND  MARIELLE QUENTINNAIS,

CREATED BY JOSE LUIS CARREÑO TRONCOSO - CHILE / SOUTH AMERICA
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
i'm a poet, i don't see language in linear fashion as a plumber or an electrician might, or as circular as a lawyer spinning lies might... for poets language is multidimensional... and, counter-intuitively... disposable.*

in the language of phenomenology
the kantian concept of the noumenon
is just translated:
an exception -
and there is not article attributes
to suggest whether the stressor
can qualify as definite or indefinite,
since the quantification value is 1,
while the qualification value is 0,
meaning that the phenomenon of, say,
a heart attack, with the phenomenon
allowing 3 years more to live,
while the noumenon allowing ~8 - ~18
years to live is un-quantifiable,
since it's an exception,
and can only be un-qualifiable
to stress its parameters if it's left
un-inspected by the noumenon-itself.
i can't stress it simpler, nor can you;
as with regards to to the commonplace
problem of existential identification
with concepts such as god, john smith
b. 1974 living on mayfield st. for the past
twenty years, married with 2 children...
using such edenic nakedness as are the pronouns,
then returning from this realm of nakedness
into attire of concepts in cognitive signifiers
used elsewhere for prayer and divination,
what are you so naked among the cardinals' clothing?
a wriggly worm, if anything?
we have inherited a nakedness with the nakedness
of pronoun usage to avoid theological association
specifically, to remain human,
to remain as john smith etc., and not thirst
for such entities beyond the invisible realm
of sub-atomic particularisation - refreshed
by the fact the we can ***** the einstein bubble
where time and space huddle hug and play the harp
in a parallelism of the dipped-in...
we can suddenly hear newtonian causality
of the atom bomb... of the internal combustion engine
and the "sparing" use of fossil skeletons
derived from hawaiian postcards and pavlov of the eyes
that ingest jealousy to salivated rather than hunger...
we can see newtonian physics provide us
cause & effect... but in the einstein muddle
we go on... living our perpetually-seeming lives
to the extent of a debt unpaid...
seeing is believing the old maxims shushes
when others are muttered in retreat
from the arena of rhetoric where the greatest actors
engage a sizeable inversion of parameters
in terms of mechanics and activity...
oh there... there they have it...
the western hinterlands who took pride
in teaching children of the greatness of nations
being built upon the remnants of butchering
social / civil engagements... and having no
other foreign power engage with their
disorientation... now... the great nations... now...
suddenly... trying to invoke a foreign civil code
into a nation that lost its civil practices?
will an english butcher say to a syrian baker
that the syrian tailor is prizing his body for bounty?
no, because an english politician will do that for him,
the english butcher will be a pop-art colour splash
against the pavement...
civil society of syria is not dependent on
english civility... and no english politician
can provide the syrians their former civility
between trades to make society coherent again...
only the syrian neighbour with a syrian neighbour can...
no politician knocked on my door in my life...
i don't even know what a politician looks like
or sounds like...
a civil war can only be solved by civil means...
not by foreign intervention...
it is about civilians becoming civil once more...
foreign investors will never crack the stalin code
available to the civilians, there, waiting...
to re-engage with society once more...
with civilising with providing art...
we don't need bombs and foreign soldiers in syria...
we need art... seeing how all the foreign neglige additions
of the final solutions in terms of postponed paranoia /
para-phobia / the spider just transversed the ceiling
doing a moonwalk - care for old ruinous buildings
that define the meaning of museum.
if i'm being honest... i rather see the worst... than fear the worst.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...


     if you didn't know, already.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i like the thought of the dynamic between words such
as presupposition  supposition and proposition -
i'm holding a book of philosophy is one hand
and a newspaper in the other: one certainly feels heavier -
   so many lives are documented
daily, without a fail, and it's sad to say: they don't
matter... but that's what it feels like
holding a book of philosophy and a newspaper:
         people get degraded into
things:
             res absquecogito (a thing
without a thought - actually
a thing without the verb of thought,
what with thought being the crowned
prince of nouns):  some do say that
thinking if the doing part or not doing
anything...
     sometimes i write and think i do not exist,
such is the overpowering stance of the people...
     but you're still left with newspaper in
one hand, and a book on philosophy in the other...
  the reason that philosophy doesn't solve anything
is because philosophy is a word of practiced
misanthropy - it just says:
i'm here, my thinking is hardly utopia:
but i don't want you to experience my problems
and make them real or phantasmagorical
as the sold solution: you avoid me,
i avoid you: we'll be fine.
  hence the juggling of of presuppositions,
suppositions, propositions and
      trying to keep your mouth shut
with enough pronoun surgery to an out-dated
Michael Jackson face and enough prepositional
leeway to protest for an amendment
to protect and: altogether losing that freedom,
readied for shouting as is the case.
what a difference though...
        a literary medium "siding" with the people,
and a literary medium "siding" with itself...
         what a disparity between the two...
       such is the shitstorm:
presupposition(s), suppositions,
   preposition(s) and propositions -
      the a before a god,
suppose there is a god,
     then let us presuppose that suppose / supposedly
so?          proposing something also works
with the same dynamic, a proposition has
to be grounded in a preposition -
                           presupposition dynamics are fun though,
you have no propositions for them,
        all you have are prepositional shrapnel itemisation
a- (without, by way of indirect)
     and           -the (bad mannered pointing at it, or by
way of direct)         articulation: summed with an -ism.
         prepositional dynamism has nothing suppositional
concerning god, hence it has no propositional
      about the most economically franchised / effective
variation of philosophical expression: lost the narrative,
ergo we encourage aphorisms and maxims.
       language needs systematisation to reveal to us
individually what words we'll be juggling systematically,
perhaps it's the re- and re- and and re- res
             reflective reflexive repetition thing...
or it might be throwing a guarding prefix
into the argument: akin to the already stated
within a framework of the pre- vs. pro- attaché
that comes prior to the suggestion...
    supposing there is a god vs. presupposing
  the supposition that there is a god... zenith: what's god?
nadir: propositioning that there is a god vs.
         prepositioning that there is a supposition of
god...
         equilibrium? propositioning a presupposition
vs. the supposition of a prepositioning:
the arguments will never end, it's just a question
how you make peace with the shared experience of
internalising sounds and encoding them in 26 characters
that are, to be frank, underdressed in terms of formalising
a standardised accented basin...
at its height language can become akin to
arithmetic, philosophers are, actually, brilliant arithmetic
artists, they can't write you a Tolstoy,
or a Camus... but they can write you a great 1 + 1 = 2...
  it's not even being economic wird words,
   it's more like Robinson Crusoe was stranded on
a beach, his tools included a coconut and a matchstick:
build me Philadelphia! obviously it didn't happen
overnight... but it somehow happened.
           that's why mathematical orthodoxy has
nothing to do with mental or signatured arithmetic,
              philosophy meets that disparity too,
obviously this stance isn't a Lady Gaga moment of
cool populism: it's shadowy and obscure,
because why would it not be so?
                  philosophers are the great arithmetic
conglomerate of spell-checks...
           hence no Napoleon invading Russia
and courtesy talk of privilege over a samovar session
and more of the odious rubric:
                 and nul scores for coherency and
creating an imaginative rekindling from a mistake made...
nul scores!
     mathematicians are bad at numerical arithmetic,
philosophers are only good at alphabetical arithmetic
(and yes, it's a kind of arithmetic:
made really difficult by babel-compounding
of non-distinct units due to the missing diacritical
marks): and in the Crimean chimera sense?
      mathematicians are good at abstracting arithmetic
in their stance on isolating symbols,
whereby π is designated the 3.14 bubble...
       and pretty much all of the Greek is scientifically
prone to encourage a stabilisation...
     people like us, working from such heights into
wording everything in an alchemical format of
lodging and connecting things together have to necessarily
spot obstacles... i know that i stress the Edenic
circumstance of the English language without
diacritical marks, but are serious journalistic outlets
suggest: about 14% of English girls are vaguely literate.
       the existence of the "other" arithmetic is
quiet poignant although remotely acknowledged...
it appears rightly asserted when someone actually has
a competence with a language (encoding an obscure number
of variations of sprechen): but still faulter / flawters /
                 ah! falters on what's otherwise, clearly
a very easy arithmetic puzzle: 0 1 2 3 4
                        a b c d e
calculator                       hence put       b d e
together into a coherency passed down to others...
cul de sac, i.e. bed.
                    a bit like the alphabet cut into three:
0 (a)     z (26):
         it emerged from the lost clarity of English ponce:
or keeping onto power, spellcheck had to be invented,
along with algorithm search engines to correct
what would otherwise be non-distinct correlatives:
had they been properly attired with distinct barriers -
  could have been worse,
we could have had Arabic as the tongue of globalisation,
but then again, as the myth goes (according to
cradle of filth within her ghost in the fog):
                                 an arabian nightmare probably
doesn't envision an alien invasion.
Warren Erasmus Sep 2012
The Man showed me a rainbow
Then He told of a barking dog
That could be silenced
Silenced in my thoughts at last
I believed Him and wept
The rays warmed me
For as long as it took
For Him to stop talking.

The Boy began to believe
The Son could at last be kissed
The King looked on with a smile
The Mother? Her ***** bright like a rose

I ran toward the banded colours
Where the promise of tenderness lay
Where the gold glint of relief shone
Splashed up against an eternal cosmos
Dripping with the honey of the womb
And the sweet down of heavenly soft
Under the melt of a fathers gaze
Holding mine in gentle play.

The sky was made of cardboard!
The rainbow was bands of steel!
The hint of gold reflected off a fools pan!
The honey? Archaic resin hardened!

I turned for an exit in a losers pathetic pose
Searching my steps backward for where I took the wrong turn
To this land of un-Edenic strange
To this place of oxymoronic weird
Where the promise so freely offered
Extended moments before so open
Now little more than dust relayed
From the very same palms of hope.

The words of kind turned to ice
The angels stood with swords barred
The Book of Love remained tight lipped 
The Barking Dog? Louder than ever into the ever darkening night.

I stood in bewilderment on this centre stage
Wondering if this was the right universe
Hoping for the end to this cosmic joke
That had found its way to my unfortunate mind
But relentless it was
And a sentence had been passed
It would be a noose of time, precious time
Regardless of my presence or absence

The noose firmed its rasp on my voice to quiet
The descent into silence engaged a metallic gear
The receding of those ones I loved into shade began
The future? Unquantifiable, heartless, maybe

It's been a world of dark for some time now
A land of tumbleweed strewn without wind
I've been rubbing sleep wanting eyes awhile
Too afraid to close them lest I miss what's hoped for
For fear I pass over unmistakable clues
Marking the return of the Captain of my soul
The Master of destiny bound to show
In this otherworldly time frame undefined to now

The cracks of light seem poised to appear
The oval dome sky now less unreachable
The hints of smile seen through frosted glass
The way back? Longer than the way toward, appears.

My hope is that you never tread my path
My dream is that you never need that rainbows allure
When you hear the dog barking, feed it with nurture
A savior is not all its cracked up to be
We are, after all, just human
Bound by the same defects
Slaves to the same weariness of time
And given to the same journey.

The light will always shine on the hopeful
The fortune will always favor courage
The past is always a slave to bad memory
The end? Always be healing anew.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
i was in a pub once, talking to a friend, among other things,
the european union came up, i said: i can understand an economic union,
so that economic migrants are no more, i rather like talking polish after all,
but a political union, with so many contrasts?!
that'll never work. then i hear the news,
and the heavy burden of saying things before they happen;
and unlike the insinuations between philosophy
and conversation, with that one mundane origin
of philosophy known as dialectics,
i find writing necessary in prophesying,
indispensable you might add -
when governing to say: the old roman said to the
new roman: the old member boarders want inclusion,
they want the slavs gone, the dream to unfold by their
terms from carthage! i want carthage gone, erased,
gone from the dream of unification, but there's
carthage dictating to the old frail rome known as the vatican!
no! carthago delenda est!
but no, they are replicating a deletion of the past -
russia predates them in propaganda as necessarily
nibbling and knitting so that, as i might add -
old bulgars and roma will testify in fright to the yugoslav -
why such northern expansions?! the whole revelatory book said
concisely enough to market a roman revival as was first insured by
pestering russia with that famous abnormal foetus collection
of peter the great, who was the sole saint in petersburg -
saint built a city! saint built a city! how can francis assisi ever compete
to sainthood by merely talking to sparrows and squirrels
when peter the great built a city?!
well, carthage moved to raqqa - that's how!
or spot me distancing myself from the bookworm moth
philosophies of the library with shush rather than: two for 'un yer bananas!
i am that i am said: it is what it is, a god speaking of the creation,
but then the interaction within it is what it is -
the predation of all ideas and associations, a single noun, moses.
so i am that i am said inside it is what it is to
a noun who had no cartesian relevant past  in terms of
refraining from swish buckle cat's in high-heels and tutu - ***** up! you
break a spine introducing me, forget the family and the child,
you me, we encounter the world changed -
what i said prior: it is what it is will become it is what it's not really.
hence enter the philosophical lexicon: reality... perception...
bulls buckling against *******... enter moses the grand oration
of this famous dusty lexicon bettered. bettered? no really,
just us the same monkey flashback drunk with barbers and better beards -
maldives under the armpits!
i tell you, there are two kinds of world spirit like that quote
about hegel on foot and napoleon on hoof -
one spirit of the world is shrouded with, is cloaked in philosophies,
in thoughts, in the oughts and the morals of DON'T DO!
the other spirit of the world - filled with musketeers and other
pawn shrapnel - expendable creatures to conform to the dictatorial ditto:
napoleon said: marshal ames said: general maccabee said:
lieutenant general nadim said: major general eban said:
major general saburo said: brigadier taavi said: colonel yakov said:
the rest were man of cadet worth with fancy pink ribbons to sport
the wide mouthed bartender of shell-shock and etc.
those are the two spirits, while in the second realm
we have the false prophets governing - with the residing "god" as devil,
but imagine fooling a false prophet from this realm, e.g. jesus to
descend, what would the devil think?! oh ****, 2d!
so a third realm reveals itself - the pseudo edenic ****** ciphered
in the koran disappear, and we salvage ourselves by not imagining
eternal sundays, eternal idleness in such with such a realm: ***** ***** frisk frisk, lubricant;
what, a ****, eternity, as dictated by the kingdom and the koranic gardens;
peasants' eternal fill, no lion, the witch and the wardrobe in sight -
no valhalla! boring! (insert family fortunes' buzzer of x).
i want to be as worthy as a tree to rejuvenate each day after slaughtering
hel's and loci's spawn!
In one dreadful winter night
I awoke and found the Truth
The self in me died
And the duality melt
To synchronize
To become
The  I.

Now I am the Absolute
The really Real
Earlier...
I was a 'being'
A myopic over-bent
A creature of false crisis
Of Hamletian dilemmas
Of Ramusian dualism
Caught up in the concentric circles

I was one....
Spirited into myriad forms
Of love and lust,
Of desire and appetite.
A pilgrim sojourning into the endless night
Purblind by the dazing mirages.

I lost my way
In the eternity of illusion
Materiality held me
Time bound me
At the dead-end of my experience
In the flash-back of my awareness
I delved into the I
And found myself in the Edenic Garden
Rejoicing in the celestial music.
Appeared in 'Encounter' magazine London Editor: Stephen Spender -March 1990 issue as well as
in 'Journal  of English Studies'Dept of English Tellicherry -Kerala June 1978
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
she once said, ‘ life is ****, deal with me!’
well no... she just said life is ****...
i liked me,
now i sit by the boiling kettle
and i’m singing out a song that
sounds less like crow, even crow sounds like
the ultimate pathology, the ultimate north...
higher and more remote from oslo that iceland
and the denmark colony...
she’s singing hello via the **** fat *****...
goodbye will be given the arithmetic a b c
when she’s 31...
testifying to train-spotting so she looks cool
but isn’t... goodbye from platform five...
i must have checked my g.p.s. for vanilla a budding first...
women are too expensive... keep cats / dogs...
better eyes... oh look here comes the soviet army
ready to beat me... then the talk of schengen was
just impregnated lamb lore of the foetus you ***** me into having,
thank you, thank you dianna thank you charles
and thank you the paparazzi... **** the harrod’s boy;
all i really want is the don quixote windmill of slo mo
of the close up airy of the hair...
i want to chase mirrors... i really do...
i want to chase them into sleep patterns
that gave you a roof, or might have had you given me the chance...
forget the marriage of buttonman buttnoning up a jacket
into perfection for batman...
batman took to encourage the october solistice and harmed
the elbow on the hour hand of the clock...
i’m **** smear bare all over the honey with you...
i’m melting like your father with his economic creases
about to remember vulture snooker... which didn’t work...
took the safetynet with him, reminded himself
of the thing called a ****** he married detached from mother
denoting daughter...
you are ready for feminism, are you ready for intellectual sexism?
i think you are...
otherwise you wouldn’t be so militant in islam...
which i invoke france with to censor you...
yeah i survived... i wish i didn’t...
i care less for the drama that ensues in you avoidance of justice...
it’s just so pathetic... i think death is less pathetic...
and i wish for death, the less pathetic of the two pathologies,
to smooch me quicker as a medicine,
i just want to disengage with this pathetic engagement with life
that brings me no closer to life
but closer to those dead and lying while with a working
tender worm oesaphagus... i rather be dead than
alive and engaged with your lies.*

the other ***** said her father had morals and didn’t
sell her as a child on screen...
he ****** my guitar up that i didn’t pay for but had
to concede on having with installments...
he sold the child... daddy **** luck was almost rich with
the investment she lied about when she said
that he: didn’t take the money and run!
he ran...
and if you’re still enlisted in the camp that said:
free art!
but not in the camp:
free bread & wine!
you must be the one gratified by really **** poetry
and stale bread that never came / and vinegar that
you wouldn’t salad-crunch with.
*****: sigh elsewhere,
i'll my mp3 the cultural output with the hamster farmers -
there's no part of you that said credo in symphony no. 9
but not owl... there's no part of you that said:
i carved the falcon crescendo of the edenic fall
for freelance
akin to the cheap **** of pop in the dyed age of replicas
for early blonde dye - can i ask you, why free art?
why free art and the contradiction of sustained
charity... art is charity? really?!
i thought the original impetus to art
is governed by sustaining the gut and the brain...
but i guess my generation just took to carrier pigeons
speeding to nowhere on empty stomachs...
well... free bread & wine & whine still resonates
better than pop songs as free as pigeon coos
or dog barks.
Courtesy of AskJeeves, and a special acknowledgement
to the Google search algorithm, this anachronistic Travelocity gent
lee blog, a factual fictitious vignette takes add Vonage of Samsung viz Clark Kent
incredible computer software programs and sturdy Mainframe he kin lent.

Bass sic Lee (this savvy poetic end-user) opted incorporating what he doth **** sitter
tubby both thee hottest n coolest common bots unseen that ping and skitter
n thrive within binary bitmap digital boot not embittered nor iz he a quitter
as unseen electronic/ microscopic realm, whar can tweet and twitter.

Since a countless number of applications constitute the hum maze zing
information superhighway (thank you Al Gore), this computer addict plucked on a wing
n broken kin prayer juiced a random sample per significant thing
hearty soulful itty bitty byte size flickr patented technological silent ring
tone signaling data communications packets fueling hand held devices did ping.

So many automatic, cryptic, esoteric…et cetera fiber optic pulsating stupefying vectors cross, twas impossible but to winnow down the selection process, in virtual sector
which smattering of Apps countless twenty first century human projector
where computer applications anachronistically don the following epistle like nectar
I Trump pet smart word smith re: scrivener effecter.

Shiloh Golong and describe, which Apple of my eye (amidst all the Core **** sans millions of equally omitted, yet equally appealing, enlivening, incorporating Wans
et cetera populate virtual reality) resonated within Chrome moe so mull Bing vans.

Skype in n Angry Bird n If ya need to take Avast break please Compaq to this Century21, Foursquare kilometers from Instagram Pennsylvania, who (despite kiss
sing eternal Allianz with the fountain of youth) witnessed The Birth of Cosmos - hiss
story give or take a million years, and can remember when Geico caveman dis
cover Victoria’s Secret how to make fire,
   which kept warm re: covergirl company in this now over lit Circuit City amiss.

This Earthlinked, Googly eyed (brown), Hotmail wannabe doth dwell in Dell a where valley thinking About such notions as: Airgas, Comcast, Excelon…. Veer
eye sin plus responding to interpersonal classified advertisements x spear
ment tang feigning tube be a bachelor.
   Hoop ping to dance with female stars purportedly accidently twerking ma rear.

Oh…Methinks a desperate gal from Ashley Madison, AdultFriendfinder, Badoo,
or purdy than from any other website fancies friend ship with this nebbish, goo goo
doll doting generic goofball perchance seeking somebody aesthetically attractive ta moo

Va the bowels of mein kempf imagination, thus envision, a slight shift in action Lifelock drama as fealty to fair *** necessitates discerning whom rapping or mebbe a mock
MineCraft softly (echoes SoundClound) infuse this creaky body limp as a wet sock
with a sudden jolt to beat a path to the door fast as greased lightening shard o rock.

Hmm…the sudden ruse to quick forge an invisible IdentityGuard  axe like a KickStarter, a throwback to those glorious atavistic arboreal days when fate did ensure tartar
sauce appeasing Plentyoffish edenic, idyllic, and lipstick Joyus ness n warder.

To quench thirst, now dear Rabbit Reader (unwelcome Reddit news hints
struggling to hastily springme to action upon my super attenuated like gooey mints
noggin Natwest ted yet will be let down upon discerning what issues **** as quince- rat…tat…tat…ring…ring…ring.” oh my dog – psyche does wince.

Campbell soup and please pardon moi while pullup these gangly limb
and attend to an unexpected interloper. All ike kin manage to mutter Kim
Kardashian - nothing amuse zing- comprises “oh sh…sh…Jim
me John, Shutterfly, Keeblers, Aldies, and quickly experiencing him
a lay ahs aka, the sensation of falling into an abysmally cold welled bank

Argh! Dave and Buster (two super tramping security details impossible to contact
on this Blizzard besotted day. While thoughts whir like Buzzfeed. Donald redact ******* blitz, he anoints himself styled ace of spades. Figurative cards stacked
when Sarah Palin, pledged gubernatorial endorsement Survey Monkey tracked
opposition, outliers immediately banished when the angel of Merck whacked

me upside the BirchBox size head n OkCupid (the one perched and Twitter on me right shoulder prods me to tell the truth, This har Motley Fool (holed up in his actually quite confesses to be a mailer daemon whose Pinterest constitutes prevaricating a kooky plight
while athwart his abode, which Orbitz a Chrome colored sun light

Whence, he (sometimes called Mac) keeper of this Oculus Rift;
SnapChatting with renown architects About MapQuest ting plans Lyft
ed for a SolarCity alone in the Whirled Wide Webbed wilderness a grift

Tor from Lake Woebegone, where all the women strive tubby on Youtube,
the children  Facebook endlessly amidst the global tract of teenage wasteland, ****
Rick hating, and every GoDaddy inquires WhatsApp while puzzling Rubik’s cube.
Twenty plus years ago cap’n Matthew Scott
   twittered n burst with ahoy
on account of thine first borne –
   unbeknownst to us then if a girl or boy
so an assortment of gender appropriate names –
   some brazen others coy
filled pages of our journals sans
   newly minted parents viz endless employ
though of Semitic ancestry choices per namesake
   reflected more of a goy
which genealogy less significant than that this precious progeny moi

healthy genetically whipped miracle – crème of the crop
that only imaginary dragons with fiery lyrics could drop
whereby thee flute tour ring notes induce the crowd to hip hop
calisthenics that emulate the swishing brush strokes of a mop
which if attempted by myself, would witness one sic pop

so, he sticks would ranks viz his literate *** spur ray shun to confess
those thermostatic and temperature controlled emotions more or less
extolling the occasions that hold poignancy,
   though as a first time father
   my state of managing a new-born felt chaotic and a sorry mess
though words may resonate less with Eden, she may dispute that YES

yet over the ensuing years – the integration of off spring  
did/does an indelible invaluable psychic ring
whereby, that awkward role no longer on a par as a foster child
   for her existence (albeit demanding at times)
   likened as special offering
whose absence doth make mine heart grow fonder, yet mandatory
   to let go of this biological part of me
   so to another happiness she can bring

though…a mixed bag of emotions most likely roil
inside her corporeal being, I praise n prize accomplishments
   spurred by natural borne desires to become independent
   rather than shutter oneself up (as exemplified by das papa)
   who still writhes for many explorations of self discovery thwarted
   renting my psyche with mailer daemons still on the prowl
   essentially predicting remaining years of emotional n financial toil

especially pronounced,
   I know this star student suffered sheer agony
when asked – by classmates -  the vocations of me
or “mother abby’, which torturous moments
   fueled means to destroy myself
   cuz of this utter embarrassment, misery, writhing really
vociferously within genetic blend, whose love
   not asked for nor sought unequivocally!
--------------------------------------------------­----
DESPITE MY ACTIONS, BEHAVIORS, CHILDISH FOOLISHNES, I WOULD SOONER HARM MYSELF THAN DO ANY FURTHER INJUSTICE TO YE – ME FIRST BORN BABY!
David Barr Feb 2014
Electric fallout races its way through the circuitry of my veins like a sinister Edenic calamity,
whilst those damp stone walls of bourgeois estates remind me of seductive servant girls.
Black Death is creeping through the avenues of our hilarity, and reveals that our plight is like Dutch cheese – full of holes.
I have changed the resistor and liaised with the stalker of the night over matters which are worthy to remain untold.
I recognise your scent.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
they allowed you your civil war... allow them theirs! about 99% of you are not syrian civilians, and i couldn’t give a half baked cookie’s *** worth of having opinions about that conflict over wine at 5pm... but hey! newspapers sell with opinions about a civilian conflict over there and queries in the dilemma sections of our society: black or white ipod i6scheißex3?!*

atheism and capitalism will never work,
i know that atheism these days is cool,
but it’s signifying a singularity, and individuation process
which only ennobles individuals with their own
theology,
atheism only works in a collectivisation, a communism,
an ant colony, then every individual can exclude their own
theology, their own subjectivity, and become wholly objective...
how did atheism become so popular?
it flourished in a greenhouse effect, in required many
individuals not really caring for a categorisation as human,
which devolved evolution to a edenic stagnation
rather than provide the true basis of evolution - we, as one, did thus.
perhaps the problem is that we didn’t do things on repeat,
and this had to be penetrated by napoleons and kants,
men of individual significant will of exclusive atheism and inclusive humanism,
but the way it’s going, capitalism and atheism only work
in sketch comedy parodies, with the argument against its non-existence
being the most debased interpretation: parasites and insects,
never truer to rom coms or smoothies’ tastes of sultans and pistachios,
it’s always grime **** grime **** grime ****.
how can capitalism incorporate atheism with the endemic selfishness
when atheism is all about selfishness and exclusive collectivisation
of man against ant, lion... owl?
it’s the ordeal of origins having to accept other species as interactant
with me without having to collectively individuate myself with
mr. simon smith happily converting his garage with a loft extension...
atheism in capitalism is fake... what capitalists sermoning atheism
truly fear than the existence of god... is the sort of “non-existence”
of god of the slavic states post world war ii without the marshall plan,
working together... ***** take one step into syria with burger king...
***** take one step with that **** into syria... i swear i’ll rip you to shards
worth an artistic impression of shrapnel intestines and flesh on the cement!
remember how christina invaded england to **** cromwell and ensure peace?
well elizabeth is too old to **** al-assad, and christina never invaded a country in civil war...
who invaded? journalists... on paper... in english newspapers... high & mighty & touchy tough guys asking for “ink” from the innocents.
I remained transfixed as the booming voice of this roman majestic orator cleft the hallowed halls of this storied Philadelphia sanctuary. His every word rang as true today as when first uttered prior to when the golden age of Rome eclipsed by marauding hordes from all points of the compass.
     Despite Latin being Greek to me, the undulations of this melodious voice quaffed as balm to the soul of this commoner, who quickly found himself buoyed aloft as if floating in a pacific sea replete with an edenic archipelago of lush tropical islands.
     This provocative master of persiflage possessed profound ability to hypnotize at least one rapt listener (me) held in suspense whenever even the minutest pause occurred in the extemporaneous monologue.
     With eyes closed, an ability to envision the ethical, judicial, moral heft of principles permeated psyche of peasant christened Matthew Scott Harris, who felt an automatic reflex to reform wanderlust!
“Removes the veil. Reveal to me the beauty of your beautiful ******* and your excited ******* filled with the desire to be caressed my lips. They are your secrets, your jewelry and your mystical treasures. Lifts the veil. Reveal to me your tree of knowledge, the entrance of your garden and allow me spoon with my tongue drops of Tal, your divine dew that drips from the leaves of your fig tree. Let me penetrate your garden, the orchard of celestial secrets with the stick of my miracles and feed me of Edenic sources of your *******. Lift up your veil and show me the beauty of your naked body and let me read the esoteric inscriptions on your golden skin, they are manifestations of your tattoos recorded in your soul, the light of mystic hieroglyphics of your spirit. Lifts the veil. Reveal to me the mystery of your mysteries giving me the wine of your vine and distills that drips from your sphinx. Removes the veil and reveal to me the entrance to the ethereal worlds of your soul, the portal to the world of emanation of your wonderful kisses, the sea of ​​your ******* on which my ship sails. Remove my veil, a curtain on my conscience and catapult it into the world of creation, the high land of your ******* which trickle milk and honey. Removes the veil …" .*

Light Walker - Deepak Sankara Veda - Mystik Poet
Sanjukta Nag Sep 2015
Million particles of tangible emotions
Whirling in the ever thirstful atmosphere
Of intoxicated Edenic earth.

A little drizzle of Eve’s moist fondness
Will start combustion on the compassion
Of Adam’s languishing heart.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i found that only the mono-phonetic peoples of this earth act like neanderthals did: protectively... implying i had a chance with one of their ****** counterparts... the loss of monotheism in a largely diffused area creates them, they're prone to shouting drunk slogans when watching a football march: with no foreign invasion impeding... to say the basics: that they can't intellectualise drinking is their downfall... drinking is shamanic like eating certain mushroom is: drink is liquidated fungus, it's an implication of all things thriving on the degenerative, to thrive on decomposition... even those championing the psychedelic escape route with the fungus can't see for a miles' worth of **** the potential of liquidating mushrooms / wheat and bottling it... i never expected to say profound things... and even if i did, i wouldn't get a ***** from saying them as those quasis who say profound things and leave me limp-dicked anyway.

a bottle of beer in between glugs of whiskey as they are:
the most refreshing and happy: sunshine down
my throat... and with those words unsaid
but typed: how i too can adopt a sarcasm
for all the woes that un-inebriated
people state, middle-aged and sexually frustrated
from socially-invoked inhibitors concerning image...
sarcasm is all they get back...
it's kinda sad... kinda...
all i'm doing in writing this verse
is an attempt to re-enter the haunting
house of the epic i started
writing two days ago...
    on the principle of ensō i find myself
unable to reenter than narrative,
every time i think about doing so
i think of: inauthentic...
                and it would be,
authenticity and the equivalent of
said once, therefore said properly...
but i wish to: only to erased the (pending)
in the title...
   but then i look at the script and think:
i've moved past this...
    why would i want to turn a river
of yore, into a lake of the now?
then unto man, who unable to coerce the elements
sought a fifth for elemental as too sensory
encapsulation and boundary,
   lightning being the fifth element...
candles v. light-bulbs, right?
       for too long the tetra-said-and-tetra-experienced...
or toward encapsulating man in
     water (creativity)
       and within wind (empty talk)
          as with earth (proverbs)
so too with fire (rhetoric)
                    so too with lightning (genius),
how i wish to have been able to write those
belittling notes down in industrial print
away from what would be considered
mindless sketching: that is why industrialisation
of print has created a medium of uniformity,
but also the Picasso's worth of hand-craftship
in what appeared at Belshazzar's feast in
the invention of late, western origination of graffiti:
******* rebel. can anyone else imagine
saying something like that, instead of asking
us why the flu or the tapeworm exists?
       the re-, the one true unfathomable monstrosity
apart from the logic of moving from point A to
point B... the re-, the one true unfathomable
monstrosity that burdens us all: who are rested...
the repetitive dream when we are instilled into
lying back and unconscious...
   for the blinking of the eye: and what is sight...
     for the first oyster gulped wriggling down
our oesophagus, alive,
    to the second and third, on a date with a lovely
   at Harrods... for all that re- is, without the -s,
it can only be a thing...                        as
thus said: that ancient curse of the vampiric
insatiable thirst to continue: under whatever circumstance,
repeat, replicate... oh the woe of the re-
                         as to be endured, heard, seen, felt, tasted...
with the demagogue all suicides rebel against:
master pro, master pro,
         who ***** his re *****, who ***** his re *****
in all of us: as transcendental genetics might not teach
us... bound to only escape such a formula,
staging ourselves within the groundwork of
the pre formulae; or how i can understand true will,
or the existence of will, as only a suicide might
investigate: to take death into his ***** and say:
for what will continue in me is but mere an apathy
of submission, but if i take death to the dancefloor,
i will truly find death's master: for in old age i will
not find wisdom, but merely the plagiarism of
childhood with less haste: to chase, to hide, to speak...
i find old age as not blessing with that childhood
already was... let me take death to the dancefloor,
on the seabed, in the hands of a hurricane,
         in the sunken sockets of gravity...
       please, here, in the crescendo of what i feel,
rather than in a congregation of mourners who
weep only in the thespian courtesy for others.
suicide? that is what i understand as true will -
              man, bacterium infernum: lost within
a blinking of an eye - within which all fates of things
freeze, undisturbed, as if alive and relentlessly blooming,
for within them an untrodden path and
within them a hand that never endured tilling as
a scythe... of that Edenic hope: to live among
the less mechanised things and in turn be a lessened
replica of that mecha-...           should this be seen
as an encouragement? too long has the asylum been
romanticised...
                    few have ventured to romanticise
the eventuality of Camus' culmination...
of what had to become the *sole
question...
          hence the taboos... people demand to think
that certain cognitive states are akin to viral infections...
   as if all those bound to the unexplained are
pulverising leprosy to the general public...
   a common trait, among neanderthals.
chimaera Jun 2015
She watched the guild
from afar, its yeast of unrest.
In her nomade pace

she wandered to choose
the wind and a river.
Self exiled

from edenic insights,
her quest was love immunity.
In a make believe sortilege,

she tattered her red laces
and marionnetted a will.
Rain fell: she was but a pretender.
10.6.2015
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
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
now i'm breathing cigarette smoke
into fog....
it's local and it's bypassing
the global narrative...
i'm sitting perched on
a windowsill
debating whether
d.n.a. predates the other curses:
i love music more
than women,
i'll say it again: i came to love
music more than the Tehran's worth
of women, the music over-powered them,
i wash shaking at the knees
of ac / dc, and i asked for d.n.a.
inclusion... because i was
bothered to read it as otherwise...
and i know there's a woman out there for
me.... and i known there's
  a lesser comic book hero to guide
the matter into a mortgage...
but i know where they gas the liberals,
i know know where Switzerland is...
   i'm bound to a boredom already
hijacked...
      ai'd gas a few liberals had i been given
a chance, like my gradfather likes to
recount: herr! bite bonbon!
         i don't mind writing about extinction
i'm quiete dodo about it,
       if the music plays, the women can shut up.
i heard my grandfather whisper into
me a chinese whisper about ensuring
your heart remained small...
             behalten herz, klein herz...
           herz uber alles.
i don't mind being an extinct specimen
akin to the dodo,
        that might sound insane around here,
but i am vague about the argument
to pro the alternative....
given the culture i find no worth to scatter
the proof...
      music overcame my want for women...
and i what comes next is a stamping,
i just want to fear the end of gravity
but instead i'll probably hear a harnass flinging
Amazonian bridge between compensator and
instigator... and i hope
   i'm wrong...
                              all this dyslexia
and anti-Rousseau sentiment... had i not read Voltaire...
but i have no one to cite...
              apart from them, so it really does seem
like all other clubs: slightly selective...
                       after a while not getting any
makes your forget that dating sites exist,
    you start to learn the proper narration of the world:
so close: yet so far away...
                           i can't state the last bet i made on
the roulette of passion, i decided to feel nothing
concerning it...
                    it got a bit worth a right of a bollocking...
all i needed was a club, and a barbwire wrapped
around a club for a signature, to turn
the debate with the right ink...
                i said n'ah, i prefer music more than
a woman's nagging... women married always
tend to make other males more useful than their own
partners...if there's a love: it will tear us apart...
otherwise we'll congregate with the accomplishment
of jealousy...
                 and if we feed the little heart:
there's no great love to be had...
                                    i can't expect this to sound
as a guiding principle, as Athos said:
  the best advice: is to give no advice at all...
                      i just love watching what
darwinism did away with the historical narrative,
we'll all be dead within the next year...
                            we're all counter to what could be
taken as worth keeping...
            i mean... we already said that fame was pointless
given there was no competition left to
usurp us... having congested the edges of the world,
becoming prime in Siberia... and lavished
in Arabia...
                      but i know that this is really
an anglophone reality, talk this talk in germany
or france and the reaction is different...
                   the more i realise that i do speak english,
the more i wish to not speak it it...
i get tired of it...
                   i sorta lose the plot, wishing that
there actually was a plot to care about...
                                          i can't see the plot,
i can't see the plot because there isn't one to begin with...
   it's architecture kept by invoking a care for
superglue... i can't see it as migrational,
   i can't see it as eastern european economic migration
or the african stampede, or the eternal-judeo
   dispersion...
            if the western people are bewildered by their culture,
then i'm doubly bewildered by the export of all
body-works to china, leaving earopean man with
menial, but rather mental works...
                  and i'm drinking, so that's a +,
but i just can't see the end as related to d.n.a.
being upkept... i can't see that narrative...
                          my concept of eternity can't really
transgress your lack of it...
                        it's get boring after a while talking
with atheists... i'd prefer talking with ahumanists...
        i'd love to pair an atheist with an
ahumanist... because i don't actually see a lot of
human in what's god's own...
                    a- (indefinite article), meaning without
god, or the kaleidoscope finger to the eye
suits the noun right... thetheism is also a very
ugly noun that could exist.... before god has no
parameters, i'd prefer to look at the words that can exist
but don't, given our care for lubricants...
     the- (definite article), meaning with god....
    well the alternatives are islam... christianity...
or the argument by populist secular commuters:
we actually do believe in the same god...
question is: what's there to question in your spare time?
        after that it becomes a hellish enterprise...
  or a dictatorial reality... or the democratic basis for:
i don't eat with you, i won't sleep with you,
and i'll certainly not turn the central heating for you.
   the least thing accessible for me, is to
watch television with you,
                 because that's how it works.
given we've moved into a.i. and robotics,
i'd like us to play god, beyond definition, by simply
not being there... just so we can perfect creating the robot...
so atheism must come with ahomo...
                          best prescribed via ****...
   or the *****...
                         well, if we are to forsake the existance
of god, and fully embrace creating the robot,
we shouldn't technically be here...
                                which makes Heidegger's
dasein really useful... given that popular culture
made fun of germans as not really human but
merely robotic, until the human peeped through
the veil of Auschwitz and everyone was like:
um... revision? just like they thought the Jews
were stupid clinging to the tetragrammaton...
  they did... in the past 2000 years of "judeo-christian"
interaction, you'de get more crucifixes than
talks about the tetragrammaton...
                well, if we're serious about building
the ******* robot, why not do away with god
but also humanity? i don't see the point of disposing one
and keeping the other...
           in our ambition to create a.i.
we didn't forsake god, we forsoke ourselves...
    i don't care whether god is dead...
                     given we have youtube
                  stars that act as clogs in the advert machinery
i find no care to find a deus mort, or a **** viv!
i find, no concern, in finding a dead god,
  or a man, alive... non deus mort, vel **** viv!
  counter:
    numne deus mort: **** est non viv,
             **** contra viv... contra deus...
                 strange to think,
a non-existent thing: to be so obstructive,
and later construct one's life around him
being so beneficial, as to make a life from
orating atheism... a tad bit funny...
        how can i perfect this vulgate?!
numne deus mort, **** emortus...
                evidently, given our preoccupation
with robotics and a.i., the death of god
came with the baggage of becoming gods
and asking to spark a secondary case of the Edenic
charring...
               again the Latin... it's a fetish, my apologies...
deus mort (god dead, est, yeah), or
                        **** viv (man, life bound) -
   it appears the two aren't as explicit as it would appear...
it seems there's a natural basis for a god,
whether satan's clause does actually involve
being paid in toy-structures and cleaning the conscience...
          and i do speak worse Latin than
most English people speak modern English...
luck of the draw... the long straw.... i win a tumble dryer...
you win a voltswagen beetle engine...
   we both end up hearing a midnight song of
mechanical burps and fake stomach maracas...
       i just thought i'd say:
either god is dead, and man has died with him,
or god is really dead, and man fakes living a
posthumous life, encouraged to create a robot...
which he has done, alternative to prayer,
  creating something a god might occupy himself
with then man has abandoned god...
                    i sometimes think:
of all the anglophone writers, i use the word
god as shamelessly as most anglophone writers
use pronouns... i use the word shamelessly...
  because most anglophone writers use pronouns
so freely... i know this doesn't give the fat
of the argument... but i use it freely...
       i'm starting to wonder wether
            god is dead gave us anything more than
people paying for a grave before they get
shovelled into it...
                  as it stands: quiet the opposite...
long before the epitaphs or the dates are
              enshrined, they have already bought
the parody of owning a home...
they are already waiting for the marble space
beneath the maple trees...
                 which is why i ask by restating
the end of metaphysics, if gott ist mort,
            what mann ist viv?
     last time i checked, i found more human warmth
of my own voice asking a refrigerator about
the weather, than my neighbour about
    last Sunday. i'd sooner punch my neighbour
dead than ask him about his feelings.
6ft1, 115kg... i guess i could put a sock in
the right case of gob.
Gods of Horcondising

Previously Vernarth takes his head resting on the ceramic that supported him between the Hydor photo duct, rather than approaching his hand to the Klismós that Saint John the Evangelist had given him when he passed through Ephesus. In such a way that when he makes the first impulse to get up from the chair he was already beginning to leave the conventional Universe for the first time, then when he sits down again in the chair inaugurating the crystalline body that was looming over himself, he continues to be the Duoverse as if outside the Klismós with its curved legs resembling supporting pilasters of the Megaron diverging to the conical ones that projected concavely supporting the hollowness of its pectoral, which was already transparent like its Invisible Eclectic Portal. In this meanwhile he gets up again holding onto the Mashiach who came to take him in his arms and place him in the klismoi that interpreted the elevation of Hellenism to the Greater Heavens and the Itheoi of the Duoverse; that is, the spiritual deities of Vernarth in the classification of the starting rank and projection of the abandonment of the Golden Himation. In such a way that the Astragalus was integrated; his floral company that rooted in his hands and roots that cooperatively took root in those of Kashmar. Thus, Vernarth with the Ibic Rings would begin to syncretize the quantum and its hyper-accelerated mobilization of physics, and sub-atomic particulars that would later unleash from Alef to Tav to Astragalus and Aionius, beginning his omnipotence.

The sidereal distance began to unlink towards the Calypso air that was twinned with large portions of the sea in the same enamel, making Patmos the union of the speed of reacting in a chain with valleys of the Dodecanese with the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi unifying Vernarth with Apollo, Smintheus and Befos; that is to say, three sketches of Apollo himself for the theological genealogy chart of the deity Scarabaeidae with species that multiplied together with Vernarth to become the metalloid Azophar, as the main guideline from the knowable to the unknowable, being Apollo the same in the corporality of Vernarth previously rising to the iridescence of Mashiach.

Astragalus: His primary Itheoi or theological picture would be composed and forming part of his feet and the environment of his ex-voto to take to all the summits of the world in the essence and the gift of eternal life represented by the root of the madrigal curdled by his feet, with the root of the Astragalus in flower when it represented the zero hours by getting rid of his Himation and meeting the Mashiach.

Scarabaeidae: God of the modality of the subsoil of wandering souls destined for the physical and spiritual decline, Scabaraeidae Aphodiinae as subtractors of all the waste of souls that have boiled in malignancy, and the Scabaraeidae Dynastinae as the righteous larvae that rise from the imaginary soil to feed on the roots of the Astragalus and all the flowers and leaves of the Dynastiae. Increased the taxonomic genus of the species that would have to remain in the underworld to aspire to a better one like these Dynastines or Heracles beetles in honor of this hero carrying the peg that Vernarth would place on all the gardens once he was in Aorion, leaving him in a larval state, before being sponsored by Hera's family for the life cycle of the Horco-Olímpico.

Nothofagus: God phoneme-photon of divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will rise in synchrony through the final growth medron of the Ibix of Wonthelimar, to the millimetric assembly shoulder of the square meters that will illustrate the Acrotera of the Megaron, and the Iridescent Nimbus that percussed between the Áullos Kósmos and the Vas Auric ” in total synchrony with Patmos, at the same level of luminosity and growth revelation of the Scabaraeidae Dynastiae to transform inert matter into another fertile one compared to Poseidon.

Lepidoptera: Like the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh bringing the fertilizations of the Lepidoptera in the Ibico Ring 6, for the central stage of investiture under the shadows of Hellenika and Theoskepasti, where everything will be endowed with the greater Ibix called Wonthelimar "that together with Leiak they would be transmuted to Horcondising.

Azofar: This metalloid god and support of the bed will take and bring Vernarth back to navigate through the cosmos towards the fifth element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to extol him from the neurological hyper brain of the Duoversal of Vernarth twinned with the Mashiach, exemplifying duplicity of Apollo as Azofar device of the new interstellar ships beyond all that is knowable.

Ibicus: god of the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they will carry the Oikos or Orphi Gold threads for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and the Ida as a Mycenaean-Valdaine complement, thus they were inaugurating the solemnity and honorability. Here the quadrature will be the perfect Heliacal Rise of the fourth Ibico with the quadrature of Aurion commanded by Leiak in the cardinal Dyticá.

Vélus: from Ibico 4, from where the goddess Artemis will evaporate in the waters for the healing of the tormented in initiatory processes of elevation of the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron as if they were surrounding a Castalia for such solemnity.

Spilaiaus: from Ibico 3 in the center of the ministry with chiropterans, and others from the mercurial ambrosia invoking the Cinnabar of Tsambika, having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of the Antiphon Benedictus”. Here is one more bastion of Hades' underworld dressing for the Speleothemes that will take you to the heart of all the dens of the Faith.

Aionius: from Ibico 1 Wonthelimar who brought purity to all who needed him and went to visit in the dark, then he would find the light when he came out of the cave alive” here Kaitelka and Borker, in total harmony with Demeter, Persephone, and Hestia, bringing them from the labyrinths with the rusty chains of Prometheus and Vertnarth wandering through infinity.

Semi  I Theoi

The semi-deities and the greatest memories in the world that would derive the denotation that would reformulate the Apoinandros that would move along the spikes of the didactic Ego or the teaching of the authentic apostles that would crystallize with Zefian, Borker, Leiak, Kaitelka, and Ezpatkul .

Zefian: Reformer of the Universe-Duoverse, possessor of the four Arrows that will illuminate Heaven and all of earthly Greece every time Vernarth circulates linearly through the seas of the Vóreios of the Aegean. Ruled North: Vóreios (Zefian Boreal)

Borker: Demiurge and caretaker of the Duoverse, warden of the Forests of the World and of the Transversal Valleys of Sudpichi. Ruled South: Nótos (Austral de Borker)

Leiak: Omnipresent demiurge, the vague spirit of the docile water dancer who lives on the water with his slimy Chin, his playful back is seen breaking the lines of wells between flesh and silhouettes. Before the First station, first of the three remaining nights before reaching the Joshua de Pétra crater” directed to the West: Dyticá (Ocaso de Leiak)

Kaitelka: Down Whale ruling the Psychic Trisomy of the Duoverse and the seas surrounding Patmos in the Apokálypsis ruled to the East: Aftó (Kaitelka's Equinoctial)

Ezpatkul: Dóntiakul or prominent Augrum or Oro teeth will rotate through the Scarabaeidae demarcating the Vóreios Vóreios throughout the Horcondising region, bilocating it in the Patmos oaks borers, with such frenzy…!, that from there they would draw the strength of the Mapuche winds from the north of the Meli Witran Mapu, beginning with the Pikún-kürüf.


Distinctive Horcondising

Horcondising or Horkondising: mountain massif where the bodies that claim to dwell in the definitive Heaven are consecrated and evaluated, multidimensional transaction of honorable and spiritual acts to continues life in a more astral and subjective plane.
Hyperdisis: Edenic Galaxy for the postulants, the sky of Joshua of Pétra.
Pólemistes Mapu: Knight of Joshua de Pétra, he used to walk barefoot and leave no footprints; and if he left them, they were the traces of Puma, incessantly seeking to reach Patmos.

Theía Trueno: Female Sister of Joshua de Pétra, she is seen walking in the wheat fields and grasses that surround the Kosmous of the only Duoverse.

Humus Sofós: Human beings degraded and feces of the anthropomorphic brete.

Kosmous Zigzag: Super Nova from the Hyperdisis Galaxy.
Adelympia: Female parent of Bernardolipo, master of the Tarot and catechist of all the classrooms of the Mashiaj.

Vátos Cantarina: Subterranean messages between both families of Joshua de Pétra and Bernardolipo.
Viologiki zoí Pichiensus: Entity of low thermal of the Gods of the Forests.

Toíchous Pirkas: Hill ridges similar to asphalted sheepskin hills.
Kryo Aqua: Host and Eucharist of the mountains that run through the estuaries on winter nights.

Vounó: Mountains of blankets or Matakis that fall on Pichiensus lands in the form of rainbows in the Iridescent Nimbus.
Vráchos Talamita: Galactic ship, a dolmen of the Talamita where they do their astral rituals.

Polyagapiménos: Joshua of Pétra's Bungalow, Incense of God, Child's Feet in the Kafersesuh, Mariah's Contemplation to Guide Everlasting Lives.

Thor's Stella Maris Metrica: Vas Auric who guides the Norse stars commanded by the Norse Deity.

Ekató Taurus: Medium troop of a hundred bull men in charge of stirring up the storms of the deluge of the Apokálypsis.

Karrenios Margaritódis Petrels: Massive defenders of the near sky in Kala Nera, masters of unfortunate land but of high media cordiality with the last fragmented souls.

Horkón: Cuirassier of the skit for non-believers, rosary for believers

Orphilía: Sylph that gives brightness to the dim stars every night.
Australdisis: Intermediate relay galaxy before aspiring to the Coelum.

Hyperdisis: Horcondising material galaxy towards the Duoverse.
Albalalhue: Cacique frightening the Demons of Horcondising and Patmos, recoverer of the Gold of Tychaios.

Talamies: Landowners of the Esteros de Fýlla or Hojas de Talami and Patmos.

Negeshon: Personality or Prosopon of the Mapu God of rancid hierarchy, director of the ears of the scared and nested Gerakis.

Diákolus: Morbid God and creators of theological hesitation in the slaves of evil.

Ramathís: Theologian who strengthens the vibrations of Lord Joshua.

Alcanphor Xórki : Macro transport of the spiritual masses to be transported at the end of the spell of the Himation Ceremony.

Wuaso: Great teacher of great proportions, they are seen at night surpassing all the Toíchous. He is commonly seen with a bullfighting pole in his left hand.

Pooja Nykterinós: Bandurria that travels through entire towns at night when they have been threatened by the evil pestilence of the cold.

Sudpichiana: Region populated by specters of archaeological lands, it is the farthest of all and the most spectral of the Horcondising.

Analpha Alpha: first illiterate in the Sudpichian land and the wisest in the refining of the Forest lineage of him.
Sacraverbial: Edenic lyricism that dances through the heights of Joshua's meditation in dialogue with Hashem.

Getsemani  Sudpichiano: Set of sacred trees of the Sudpichiano sector.

Jesuslight: representation of Krishna, Light of the shadows of the shepherd with his music of birdseed and sonorous of the lyrical flute. He sings and enchants when night falls he is filled with green colors, and when the night dissolves into the beginning of the day he is filled with solar colors.

Pirkas: delimiting the arteries of the highlander.
Slimy Herb: Lamprey's stomach herb, acid, and complement to Ha-Shatan.

Zenón: ox of the good harvest and the sunny day. Strong as a storm of Love of a healthy animal.

I Eikosi: the twenty fluffy felines agglutinated in the dark hell of Horkondising..

Konófora Analfagamas: high genetic range forest. Their voices are heard by the jet-black voices of the night.

Protograss : Mineral of the great universal heart that turns into mold.
Trisolado odogéfyra: access routes to the great Energy of the Duoverse viaduct.
Pre kalésete: Anticipatory doors before opening the soul that has to enter the Universe of Saint John the Apostle.

Ramireaux Astós: Joshua de Pétra's hemiplegic recorder, Selector of those who crossed the preferential threshold.
Mass Parameters: Kafersesuh of Light that adds to that of Hope and Faith.

Ingratia mol petal: Ultra-fragrant and liquidating molecules of the carcinogenic aureoles of the hollow of the chest of the Lymphoma of Vernarth, purifier of life.
Gender of the Duoverse Itheoi
(no braggadocio! modest rodomontade scored triumphantly!)

Unbeknownst to me, a generic human ape,
an unpleasant surprise
     swished down like an ominous cape
awaited and near smothered me drape

ping that October morning, where no escape
presaged via frisky black cats
     chasing shadows on fire escape
crossed my path after walking under a ladder
     where ice **** ravens didst jape!
**********
Wheels of injustice applied via de
fender, sans Johnny Cochran forced ee
year splitting amidst general public fee
ver rush to absorb disbelief shell shock hee
ret tickle non guilty conviction from key

ping popular culture spell bountious lee
really exhausted viz three ring me
dee ya circus (June 1994 – October 1995) pre
vail ling obvious evidence irrelevant, thus re
deeming O.J. Simpson to strut guilt free

from emotionally charged trial. I awoke
as usual and performed customary bespoke
oblations vis a vis half-hour plus choke
hold asphyxiation meditation, okey doke
shuteye discipline followed daily to evoke

calm, cool, and collected trance zen dental
bliss before motoring on with gist of gentle
lee presented vignette, though me mental
state did not shift gears into a rental

modus operandi, but only partially new
trawl eyed , cuz the then fiancé (one mew
zing chic chick i.e. Abby Robin Zison), Jew
dish us lee spent the night
     at our transitional grew

some domicile) immediately nsync to report do
tuff lee (at the Goddard School)
     raced like a Chew
Bach ha's Dickensian protagonist back up Badoo
two flights of stairs. Like eponymous Aloo

men hum mushing spry feline woman out bitta bing
bitta bang (clanging like hells bells) ding  
donging, she immediately flew back fling
all four feet eleven of her harried style jing

ling in an agitated state she set foot to go bob  
bing out the door intent
   (as iterated) driving to her job,
and in combination pantomime
   and words crisis did lob

asper like a bot to me,
     she attempted to communicate rob
bing her unsuspecting fount of thespianism
   tub air gritty modicum
   of rationale from putrid slob

name of Leslie (the lunatic landlady)
     thine paramour conveyed clarity mouth ajar
after surmising urgent news
     required automatic action to un bar
driveway, where I parked car,

the previous night surreptitiously venal far
from rational rapscallion most definitely har
bored an axe to grind, and locked Ford Escort par
**** shinned within chain linked fence - war

fore suggestion got made
     (from future bride)
to confront landlady,
     and sternly insist and mildly chide
corrective action taken,

     yet this storyteller defied
said suggestion, and brainstormed
    with betrothed asthma guide
averting compromising neither of our pride

and prejudice respective, sans stevedore
managers would not let us slide
gnome hatter, how we could not
     escape deprecation
     no matter how much we tried.

Prior to heading off to bed
     the prior night, I deigned
to express likelihood to landlord/owner
     thyself and pseudo spouse needed to find

another place to live. The major reasons
for vacating premises? Her grind
ding cigarette no ifs, ands
     or buts smoking mind
less ness ranked (on par
     with chimney didst wind

     burning wood smoke
at full blast) as primary source
     of revulsion did provoke,
and aye came across with homespun folksy
sensitive mien, as a simple country bloke
I expressed honest sentiment at being
extremely averse (where hacking awoke

     the future wife)
     from second hand carcinogen(s)  
     extant within cancer sticks. Asphyxiation deafen
knit lee found me choking half to death even
putting towel under the door, or

     additionally keeping
     bedroom window wide open,
the malodorous nicotine wisps ambled - pen
     knit trait ting, wending, curly cued,
     and filtered thru fabric with mischievous yen.

No matter, the twisting tendrils of tobacco found
their way into ole factory nasal cavity ground
zero, sans health conscious holistic being hound
did, what constituted one deranged dame
     the SPCA ought to impound.

Another factor fueling foul accommodations yin
     wanna know offset fine tuned win
Dixie yang,
     which odoriferous torture constituted

     nauseating odor of cat *****
and litter boxes smelt worse than sin,
cuz, they never got cleaned of feline ***** matter
     near visible as a unsightly dangerous shark fin.

Upon summoning effort
     and energy to communicate
bona fide concerns, she responded
     and didst denigrate

with contempt fiery madness irate
psychotic malicious venomous vile
     as dead body snatcher mate
and then insidious wheels

     of malice with tongue flames
crackling, popping, and snapping
     from out her reptilian pate
     began to turn more sharply

     amidst ghoulish clatter and path
     of destruction on her tabula rosa slate
with more danger than
     along axis of evil tete a tete.

She madly paced back and forth
     across maligned envisioned aisle
a small patch of uncluttered space in main foyer
     witnessed seething rage wherein

     carpeted floor boards,
     an imperfect circle shod feet didst dial
no doubt internally
     plotting vengeful strategic guile.

Castigations, fulminations, and insinuations ague
gulled out her mouth
     noxious fumes left exit pronto flew
ludicrous lacerations
     from fiery dragon lady did spew

while yours truly soundly slept
     and without incident dreamt edenic view
she unwittingly trappings to annihilate  Xandu
some personal vendetta. After I washed, dressed as a zoo

keeper headed downstairs,
     the malicious scheme she did hatch
out back became a living reality,
     an empty house doors hooked with latch

(Samir, the other occupant) left hours earlier no match
to tangle with wicked witch absented premises natch
eerily echoed every footstep trod one patch,
after another
     patent leather slippers paused to scratch

an niche 'pon second landing
     (to confirm a strong hunch)
that nary a soul heard nor seen,
     probably out to lunch,

no raving ranting banshee
     demented drunk as punch
No zombie like entity appeared from the “DO
NOT DISTURB” sign affixed
     outside sleeping area, aye did scrunch

brow to compress insight,
     where mangy catatonic felines
     shared coterie holograms suddenly jumped out
     from virtual reality cat n' app cradle
     swishing tails shorn like cat o' nines

mewing obscenities (within/ out
     computer screen, ominous signs,
sans phantasmagoric phantom) lurking
     like a lunatic swing from vines.

Nonetheless, I continued to tread
     down dimly lit said
lower level with glimmer
     of optimism to bolster lead

din heavy mood crossing fingers
     spare set of skeleton keys
     (with cross bones and skull head)
nearly always left tantalizingly
     dangling in unused door latch, twas cred

double wish, thus spirit within me soared
and just as quickly sank to abyss of psyche moored
     sensation felt like poured molten lava oh Lord
Guess what? No such luck. Oh,
     she definitely would not a ford

carelessness, and took precautions okay
hiding temptation to make a getaway
Well…I stepped outside
     to assess situation. Blimey cray
zee myopic eyes forced to glean deadbolt
     found gate shut tight, thence a feeble bray

escaped parched lips, when lo...vix
teased and cross myopic eyes,
     no doubt played tricks
holy glory. Ah, a handsaw
     carelessly got left and altered mix
matched tool chest in plain view, a sudden fix

but prior to acting on the plan, quite do able
I made a few telephone calls
     first telephonically cable
hub rate, and firstly contacted employer

     told tale more unbelievable than a fable
thence to local police
     in order to file complaint against
     goon bonkers malicious monstrous label

quick as the brown fox
     jumps over the lazy dog
escape attempted perilous hell grog
ghee nightmare commenced after placing

     phone back on cradle, whence nog
     'gin set fingers to twitch busily
     sawing into one steel link,
    (an effort aye did slog)

thru to break at one linkedin steel segment
barricading trusty Ford Escort
     so this fellow could hightail with pent
up adrenaline out of nefarious
     steely web and test a mint...,

     whence surge of adrenaline
coursed from head to toe,
     my heart pounded not so gent
lee ready to burst from chest,
     and palms perspired profusely
with unexpected accursed of evil incarnate
     vis a vis hell bent agent

provocateur ready to pounce
     and deliver violent
retribution, which blows
     from blunt heavy object,
   would invariably render me unconscious
   courtesy of cerebral rent.

For better than worse, a kind face
of destiny smiled from countenance grace
sing unseen karma
     smiled smooth as sateen or lace
upon my essence as shaking hands

     furiosly moved saw handle
     back and forth dozens of times until…
THE CHAIN BROKE AND SET ME FREE
     now fickle finger of fate
     got me ought ta this place!
Ylzm Sep 2019
Rest is Reprieve
   from the burdensome curse of futile toils
Rest is Restoration
   of the perfection of life freshly bloomed
Rest is Return
   from Edenic exile to its fullness of beauty
Rest is Remembrance
   of Seven, an artefact of Mind
   a Mystery and a Measure of Time
Rest is Today
   for as long as its Today
   until the Eighth Day dawns.
Absent deliberate intervention
     vis a vis suicide,
supposed "natural" longevity
     of generic human primate ride
ding ******* across avast
     broke back mountain minus pride
defies accurate prediction,
     though hypothetical

     projections can override
unknown factors, whereby
     excluding misfortune nationwide
(and/or globally deadly accidents,
     catastrophes, diseases, mudslide,
fatalities from gunshot, et cetera)
     unexpectedly arise dismissing by landslide

mortal adversity can be generally,
     and more accurately spell joyride
ding calibrated to continue,
     thus subsequent existence,
     viz getting inside
scoop of this basic fellow, aye surmise
     to continue for many another hayride
say...two score plus more orbitz,

     whereat linkedin, flickr ring guide
by invisible hand snapchatting
crackling and popping fireside,
twittering whatsapp pining
     during eventide,
watching virtual twilight at dockside,
witnessing artificial intelligence,
     perfectly mimicking

     illusory edenic countrywide
vibrantly melds scenic
     ideal tonic bedside
counting black sheepish crows,
      thence set sleep number
      putting all worries aside
while merrily rowing boat
     with gentle creatures alongside.
Nallely Martinez Aug 2020
You are but a candid creature, cut off from the divine grace of God.
Venturing forth into the unknown oceans for the conviction of "knowledge."
The stifling droning of his choir will corrupt your insistent reasoning.
As you procreate remedies submerged within the declivities of Paradise.
Consuming the insidious fruit, tainted coral of which men were forbidden.
Transform your fleshly palate through sacrilege and degradation.
Knotting the bridge between the metaphysical with the corporeal stratum,
The echelon beseeches the Apocryphon by way of holy intercession.
Observe, as your analysis provokes your cerebrum's malformed Genesis.
You are a negligent being, rifely merged through the consciousness of God.
I wrote this after playing Water Womb World, a video game by Yames, whom really inspired this. I really loved his exploration into more esoteric content, and his dealing of religious subtopics. His wording are one of my favorite parts of his games, and it always succeeds in grabbing my attention. His aesthetic within his games are another love of mine. I really enjoy this work, and I hope that you all do too. I know it's been awhile, and I'm currently ongoing towards college. Still I wish to "get back into the swing of things" and continue my writing. Thank you all! :)
no shortage of familiar metier real
     (material) aye attest
welling up within thy breast
merely a predicament how to winnow

     junk bonded barnacled
     accretion encrusted
     amidst gems buried
     within treasure chest,

yet vigilant to sift,
     viz figurative fine tooth comb
     uprooting excrescence laired plethora
     incognito, sans faux

     couture doggerel habiliment dressed
necessitating painstaking
     poetic rock climbing
     ala scaling Mount Everest

imbedding, hooking, grappling
     fingered duple crampons
     aye con fessed
to myself, the futility

     to wrest Shakespearean nuggets,
     which analogy hyperbole you guessed
nor does modesty allow me feeble effort
     (trite) on par with August bard,

who would rank him,
     the highest allotted value
     upon assigned (absolute)
     value of playing card,

hence tis the gold standard thee
     verse a tile scribe based
     at Stratford on Avon
this here wordsmith wields

     his own literary might always on guard
to stave reprehensible tar tarred plaque
     like encrustation glued hard
akin to a geode methodical
     mother lode extraction jarred

by the slightest distraction,
     thus with bold
ness sigh hermetically
     seal off every cerebral fold
vectors against superfluous mind chatter
     can upend fragile tenuous hold

when merest wisp of nearly
     elusive mental thread escapes,
     i feign scold
ding this paperback
     bestseller wannabe with told

cha so Harris, thus
     keep dreaming envisioning
     an green acred Edenic demesne
     sprawling across wide webbed wold.
Jesse Revollar Jul 2018
Dear, Arabia Ohana,

This brief but edenic stint shared en masse and peripherally has, a fortiori, made me brimfully ecstatic to have become apart of this ohana. This parcel is to impart my incredulously revered kismeted perspective on this pleasant billet symbiosis that I accredit to the deific clairvoyant who fondly granted our correspondence with utmost prudence. I cannot convince myself some lackadaisical serendipity materialized this perfectly pertinent vista. With profound sentiment I personally express how this considerably blessed boon has merited profuse gratitude, absolute admiration and the reverent affection from my entire family as of quandam, contempto and nigh.

With genuine gratitudinous laud

Jesse Revollar
I moved in as a live in care giver for this family's mother here in hawaii. The employers were the daughters and I finally got to meet them and spend some quality time around our island. I was rasied in a more dysfunctional setting and never had such family hollidays so i wrote this letter to say thank you on behalf of everyone that han do and will love me since they're helping me go through school so my future and my past appreciates this new life they've afforded me. This change in my life has required a step that askes me to have faith in a greater power. I metioned that our correspondence
must of had this hand in play because finding this position has helped me in more ways than financially and came with nearly no effort on ny part but it definitely wasnt dumb luck.
Into Young Womanhood

this glorious role, sans
     helping beget and nurture thine first born
three day shy of Christmas 1996,
     fills thy being
     with joie de vivre and doth add dorn
more resplendent than any horn
of plenty, and aye can only imagine
     more precious than fine spun gold
ah...how this papa doth recall,
     when he didst hold

and/or swaddle his edenic bundle of joy
     and taking stock,
     how she (christened
     Eden Liat) didst mold

herself into an autonomous offspring,
     rarely receiving a scold
cuz, she most times seemed well mannered
     and infrequently told,

and thus said benevolent prized progeny
     required no special programming nor app
even when a child, adolescent or,
     latte (sipping) teen,
     this genetic bounty evinced

     laser like thinking
     with a custom made thinking cap
although...yes, (there erupted a verbal flap
toward the missus or me,
     (the latter and former

     markedly differed asper child rearing,
     which unseen rift
     engendered a figurative gap
mollycoddling, holding, consoling,
     et cetera distraught daughter on me lap

which cradling, fas incubating, rocking...,
     which oft found
     this biomedically cherished baby taking her nap
twas at such poignant bonding moments,
page number two.

     aye DID NOT decry the parent trap,

thus now, special "gifts"
     with bittersweet motions bespeak
as tears (viz - ode to joy)
     stream down each stubbled cheek
this middle aged grown man,
     doth recollect with embarrassment
     how as a teen thyself as classic "geek"
whereat mine demeanor extremely meek
AND let NO chanced avail

     for one to take a peak
and now...unstoppable
     grievousness awoke,
     oh no...nothing un speak
or print able did occur only a human weak

ness, when thine voice
     un-necessarily raised yet,
blink back moistened
     slightly crowsfeet darkened eyes set

tills within this intelligent
     well read and let
hard bloke accepts the "circle game of life"
...listening to thee

     beautiful, charming, exemplary dulcet
an em ma nant treasured
     valuable accouterment tummy life...
     YOU BET!
Besotted winged pollinators
roistering barrage drowned
amidst general insectivorous cacophony
indistinct auditory signals communicated

intermingled with bounteous wafting fragrance
midwifed edenic floral pullulation
sensate admixture viz colored spectrum
amidst unrehearsed extemporaneous

orchestral suite bedded lambs
amorous ewe man like bleating songs
nature all aflutter actively socially vociferating
profuse living color rainbow pastiche

teeming soundgarden smorgasbord
cornucopia ignites mordent Utopian aural swath
visual vistas stilling spellbinding
spilling riotous carpeted web

uniting doubting Thomas's existentialism
despite unanswered queries
asper diverse modalities each specie evolved
to survive despite countervailing destructive forces

generating plethora pandemonium ironically
promulgating harmonic exemplary convergence
Highland Manor concourse aflame with new life
parented by instinctive imprimatur anonymous patents

now genetic mapping usurped with untold outcome
analysis bred crispr discovery Earthlings fiddling
glorifies honied indemnity Judeo-Christian kudos
leaves of grass kudzo resistance mutation immunizes

biosphere once prolific differentiation shrinks
becoming monocultural setting virtual stage
catastrophe plus food shortage would become
global debacle predicated, sans virulent

viral and/or bacterial strain renting asunder
tripwire unspooling delicate webbed whirl
already widely compromised more so
since Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring


**** sapiens population explosion
pits profligate predilections planet Earth in extremis
dire crisis cavalierly dismissed humans
in hot pursuit racking up superfluous wealth

***** deeds done dirt cheap - tricking
mother nature, who will unwittingly
spring scrumptious feeding off scrimmage
forcing capitulation or total extinction

meanwhile fostering long tall floral inflorescence
a composite having sessile flowers
apiary abuzz, cuz queen bee
can no longer wax bereft of royal jelly.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
yes, i understand diacritical arithmetic, odd, isn't it, that so few people pay attention; e.g.? mötórhead: which for english ******* is written in excessive spelling as: mootoorhed... english becomes so ugly so soon, the **** language can't help itself, given its dyslexia outpouring, english become ugly the minute you attach, but one diacritical distinction, gulp oh the differences between A and ah, and count the breath, which is H, in english... the slowly oozing curling slither of a python... the english language hides plenty of aesthetic cruelties, medusa-gorgons, snakes in wine barrels, you need but one diacritical investment in this edenic tongue, that rose to the propensity of a british empire, with the daft belief, that little england would never arrive, so sure they were, to not revise the latin bet, by adding "barbaric" distinctions... now you have you sally aussie, and your tom-boy canna.

and why am i not reciting my verse,
on the odd occasion,
i do listen to spoken word,
to poetry being recited, rather than composed,
and sure, it has a decent amount
of attention... but... but!
what's with all the hysteria?!
every, single, poet, i listen to,
is hysterical! these days madmen speak
with a more calmer countenance than
these "poets"!
perhaps i'm buying my time,
but the shrill of these efforts to perform
makes the hyenas seem inviting,
it makes a tiger's roar a cat's meow,
and yes, the prime "defence" of poetry,
or "technique" namely that
of rhyme, it's still vogue, rather than a
faux pas, but only if it's not methodological,
if it's not systematic,
   the cute bit on the side,
the spontaneity of:
   within the prose - the classy origin
of the beaten drum -
rhyming like that works,
but systematic rhyming belong in the 19th
century...
        no one would dare write,
within the guiding help of a poetic school,
just like painters wouldn't paint
within a school of cubistic replication...
rhyming is dead,
because poets had to write a prosaic
"aversion" of themselves -
given that prose itself: became all too
simplistic, therefore?
   *poetry is the new prose
/
   ars poetica est prosa novus;
right, that's settled then,
we won't be hearing an argument about this
observation, any time soon...
people have become bored
with the imbalance of over-complicated
characters, who are studied too often
and to an even greater extent than
is necessary, while the narrator dwindled
beneath them, in their shadow...
   people enjoy crafty narrators,
intelligent narrators -
     the only medium that care little
for such narrators, and much for
the most versatile and inventive characters
is the movie industry,
or the art of writing scripts -
  where the narrator plays the most
glorifying aspect of any writing genre:
the pawnbroker,
   and in more kinder words:
     the invoker of pawns as the shields
for the grander pieces of drama,
nonetheless: indispensable,
  and securely staged with an honourable
purpose.
- and yet, every time i watch these
recital videos by poets,
  i can't feel but a certain pinch of salt
on a freshly made wound,
   or the idea of eating raw onion, or garlic,
or for that matter, ******* on a lemon
and not providing slapstick humour
with the ****** expression that ensue;
the sheer desperation, the sheer
"heroics" of *****-fits, the mere exasperation!
i have yet to come across a soothing
voice in the current poetic zeitgeist,
a sane voice,
           and as all critiques tend to show:
apart from the vanity project,
  that is me;

i guess the best i can do, is leave you with
a quote from jack spicer from
his poem: ode to walt whitman...

  along east river into queens
the kids were wrestling with industry.
the jews sold circumcision's rose
to the faun of the river.
   the sky flowed through
               the bridges & rooftops -
herds of buffalo the wind was pushing.


p.s. his output was hardly the stuff of
prodigy, but sometimes:
  saying the least, is saying: just enough;
me? i'm a rapacious wizard -
  first i'd write an encyclopedia -
then a dictionary,
       but that is not to suggest it's a forced
error of "expertease" -
      namely? either the anti-thesis of
the christian third party (the zeitgeist)
took grip of me,
  or some other wielding demoniac artefact
of my "idle hands" spurned me on...
it doesn't matter,
    a 1000 mediocre,
             equals 1 that's popular -
but popular is never: the finer effort -
just a congested, constipated drag of
having to recite, recite, recite,
recite, over & over & over again -
that one popular brooding...
  
if you'd know, you'd also know that writing
1000 "mediocre" verses -
is less teasing an overcast of boredom
and tedium,
        or as kant said in his grave of
english society:
    i said that the categorical imperative is
to live by one maxim, alone!
one!
    these english are throwing maxims
left, right and centre,
      and i call that: the imperative of fickleness!
if not toward.

i might recite something one day,
but i'm waiting for the hysterics of today,
to hush down, and so that silence can
overwhelm these "poets" -
    and, in the end? scare them.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i remember the first time i lost my virginity to a pair of police handcuffs, the ones in england are rigid, so you don't actually get to put your hands behind your back, rather, they're in plain sight, right in front of you... i had the occasional scruff with the law, well, that one time when i was alcohol poisoned by warm ***** and managed to turn a police van into a taxi home... loved the cage though, felt like a bit of a che guevara (gorilla, guerilla, yeah?)... oh, the handcuff loss of virginity... the offence? ******* in a dark alley, next to a dustbin... the **** of a colt of a police officer had too much testosterone in him, kept shouting and shouting at me like batman vs. the joker... i kept from laughing, drunk as i was: i was an inch away from the tsunami of giggles, and he shouted: get up! and i said, i can't be bothered... get up! he shouted, eventually i got up... you know, there's a better insult in poland concerning the police than mere pig... it goes along the nursery "rhyme" of: there's a boppy who only knows how to read, and there's a boppy, who only knows how to write... frau heimlich will explain, in sign language, and that's not braille - so, ****! thank you frau heimlich, for making a, devastating case of ****! (esp. with the missing Я) - i'm copernicus all over it... and make that two shakes of a fox's tale, some ice, a squeeze of lemon, and i'm bound to call your grandma: sunshine!

oh, right, the colt quiff of the blues brothers
suddenly took the cuffs off,
and i was free, ready for my manicure -
because, apparently, ******* in a dark alley
was not so bad, but a drunken brawl was...
i just love the fact that his screaming was
so ineffective on me,
    it almost felt like i became a virus that
built up an immunity to antibiotics -
or anti-*******...
     i might as well have asked for a second
loss of virginity to the handcuffs
by jerking off in public, luckily i had
enough sense in me to snigger while walking
back home...

blah blah nah nah... beside the point...

upon reading heidegger's aphorism 42 (vi) -
it just strikes me...
    i hear this ******* about identity not being
ethno-centric,
   the sort of **** that brings about bill C16
and the albino pronoun brigade,
who suddenly go: whoopie and strip it
even further, and we're left with language
like those *Gunther von Hagens
sculptures -
sign me up!
    you know, like totally bleaching people,
stripping them into a post-edenic state -
love the work though, francis baconesque -
can't be a genius: if you can't be mad -
the mad, the bad, and the not-so-bright;
but in this aphorism i conjured up a "spell":
you know that funny feeling you get when
you can reconnect with the antopia?
it's not a utopia as such, more a:
    and all these parts go together,
                                       like an ikea table;
it takes but a simple thing,
a book by a fellow countrymen,
or a song, like track 12, from the film
  ogniem i mieczem - husaria ginie
(death of the winged hussars) -
based on the book by h. sienkiewicz -
thus the aphorism which includes
the following:
   die völkisch (the folkish) worldview,
or better still die völkisch dasein,
the term has actually evolved -
  it's not longer a simply abstract da-sein,
it's concrete in the people, the land,
the artefacts, the basics of the most primitive
kind of artefact: an imprint
on the base of all if not merely some
things organic, inorganic, or at least
the aura of the physical: the melancholy
of, say, the english consistency to be
morose in its weather: overcast;
as you first notice - the first thing you
notice concerning england is:
either a double-decker bus, or the persistence
of overcast clouds... a bit like in the matrix movie;
no wonder then, the sense of humour.
yet that is heidegger's case -
english society has long forgotten its folkish
roots, sure they sometimes play
vaughan williams' fantasia on greensleeves
(and if my informant is correct,
  she mentioned it was originally composed
by the tyrant... henry viii?)
        and those funny looking druids
and the stonehenge -
        but, with kind respect - this country is all
but represented by metropolitanism,
   or that cocktail, cosmopolitanism -
          there is nothing folkish about this place,
a place has been replaced by a world,
been replaced by all things global,
subsequently replaced by an orb,
    a scarab beetle tucking into its dung,
egyptology, a **** similis twice removed
from an orangutan who we started calling
    firlin mc'donald...
                  then onto the moon,
  and **** all elsewhere...
           it's hard to think of a people in the anglophone
world, given that the actual language is
hardly a language for the people,
    so imbedded as to give a literary worth
to the people, a depth...
  english is the lingua franca of today,
or, should i say: lingua commercia -
  and by definition: it's a bit like latin -
                           a language: of dead ideas;
its insulative "protect the women" mentality is
like a cancerous addition to the already
abnormal growth: that, like chernobyl
   didn't ****, ought to have killed many more.
i still can't believe the intellectual toddlers
******* their thumbs clinging to darwinism
like koala bears...
         so yeah... do you think there was a branch
of humanity that evolved from bears?
it's become this boring, this sticking to our
darwinism, that is the source of the most
detestable jokes... as true as it might be:
   the pompousness, oddly enough,
doesn't rub off on continental europeans...
as heidegger points out:
   a people is the ground on which all creativity
proceeds; a people is with regard to the process
of creativity even the root out of which creativity
arises and stand...
  and isn't that the case?
    we've already stripped the people
to the basic grammatical units,
   bleached them, stripped them of an ethno-"bias",
and by that i mean: basic recognition -
  nay! a historical unit of the already governing
history-continuum...
         no wonder there's a trans movement
and the abstracting recoil of the absurd -
     i'm the least surprised given that -
       perhaps this was not written in my native
tongue -
               i leave this page, i'll still ****** well
speak it...
    point being... america is a nation of immigrants?
personally? i like to think of them,
as a nation of mongrels...
          i was fed this jealous crap a long time
ago, in high school, where the history teacher
said that i would be the only child in the classroom
to not head into a concentration camp...
oh right: ******* special i was back then...
   just like any rottweiler pure breed looking
at your common mutt...
        and the atypical question in england
is? so, where you from?
    asked by a mix of sikh and irish?
     coupled with: so what ethnicity are you?
and the scary answer, that makes a sikh / irish
mongrel run away?
  oh you know, they sometimes refer to me
as a pure breed.
      huh?!
        mama didn't shnuckle up with some
******* ******.
             yeah, it sometimes gets that bad -
but a question like: where are you from,
                   over a pint of beer -
                       deserves that sort of response;
so when are we gonna talk about
black privilege, the blues, the jazz,
   and the 100m sprint, or the ethiopian /
kenyan long distance runners?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
this is an "etymological" petition, there's no "proof"
involved... let us just say,
   why do i never, and never will
cite an english "philosopher":
frankly? because there aren't any!
i know there are worthy examples
that kindly lend their tongue
to idle ears...
         but the english,
being counterparts of the swabians -
i.e. the saxons: are sophisticated
braggers of esteems -
    they parade upon the notion
that they are best as gesticulation,
fathoming their superiority upon
a gimmick! they they are superior
because of their accent...
      yet fathom half the work and twice
the leisure in competing with
the greeks in diacritical approach...
they really gave swallowed the
red herring... they never could
   keep dialectical approach to their
already shakespearean approach
of being two-faced sheep-shaggers
while pushing them off a cliff...
that's why i can't redeem or even consider
the english a philosophical race,
poetic, yes, but their demand for replacing
the greeks as: the "philosophers"?
that's too much, it was enough that they
imitated the romans and left the latin
script edenic...
  but to fathom an imitation of the greeks?
now you're pushing it!
******* bellybuttons of the world,
it has no bearing with greenwich being
the ******* meridian!
             you've pushed it, far enough!
you can be the "philosophers", once
you acknowledge diacritical markings,
and eradicate dyslexia!
          why are the poles so fathomable
with their tongue? clear, syllable, indicators,
diacritics = punctuation marks within
punctuation marks... which probably
means an enigma for you,
  and that subsequent paraphrase.
and it's an irony, i must call it
   german ironism,
                 for a people for efficient in work,
they were the ones to produce the most
philosophers worth citing,
i guess: once you become too efficient
you have to craft a tier of gifted bums...
intellectualism for your spare time...
which the german philosophers are,
bums,
            intellectuals that can fill a room
with more furniture than a carpenter...
odiously its very much imaginative / cognitive
furniture, kinda likefeng shui,
but less so...
               which is strange, since the germans
ought to be the last people able to think...
hence german ironism is a paradox
having replaced idealism,
   and the yiddish zenith...
       i think that's where god resides -
      his curiosity made him non-existent
in the darkest hours of auschwitz -
    he was like: huh? how the **** did that happen?!
there's a new fragrance in the air,
  it's not some englishman with his head
in a ****,
    it germanic, pure and simple,
   and only if it was the anglo-swabians
and not the anglo-saxons...
       ******* porridge-pie for all i care...
sure, john stuart mills,
       adam smith (an economist in the end) -
but the english are not a nation of philosophers,
which is odd, since they ought to be,
with however pointless jobs they invented
after having exported the meaning of labour to china,
and are the genesis of marxism,
which was tested in mongolia...
            oh, you didn't know?
yeah, mongolia was the laboratory in vitro
groundwork for communism -
mongolia = in vitro communism
   the warsaw pact = in vivo communism...
what?
       yet the persistency of the question
that is greater than a question per se -
for a nation of such ardent workers,
such efficient workers,
   such effective monstrous combatants of
economic prowess,
  who, sane enough among them,
could ever provide a book of philosophy?
   that's what i mean about german idealism
being replaced by das groß ironie -
the english have no chance in being philosophers:
it has become too cinematic for these people,
too: what's "real"?
    i can't treat them without a whip -
they are too an obsolete a people to compete
with either germanic or, (that dreaded association)
with the fhhhhhhench...
             the fwench! the fwench!
because the english have not allowed
    faking work, to making certain work
obsolete, they simply made working
obsolete, and faking the most apparent form
of work! no wonder that communism
originated in england!
   once more, if you don't like my scolding
whip-of-a-tongue to be on your case:
        in hope you enjoy the next bomb-blast!
but, how, how could the most efficient people
on this planet, provide enough time to
guarantee a family tree of philosophers?
   how could these people end up so
unimaginative and bored, as to provide the world
a kant, or a hegel?
           cracks in the ceiling i see: load the ark!
- and i will never cite an englishman's thought,
for the simple reason that:
   it's too late to test the englishman's
pompousness as the global meridian bellybutton!
about as centre as my ***-crack is to my nasal cavity
in my ****** geography.
       i can't cite them...
         i'll take these peoples seriously once
they wave goodbye to their multiplex romana -
and start bereaving their europeanism
akin to the icelandic peoples...
                 there is not a single greek among
them, they can fake it with their greek-cypriots -
but that gets you as far as feta cheese
            a shy kofta kebab, or a moussaka.
hence das groß ironie - for a people for efficient,
so engrossed in celebrating manual labour,
der deutschevolk, to be the rightful inheritors of
the greek thought?
         staggering...
unfathomable, unimaginable,
              but as the statement suggest:
  probably the greatest irony in world history...
i almost think there was no divine
intervention because of the creative output,
akin to a beethoven et al.
   i still will not cite an english "philosopher",
for there aren't any!
               and if there are:
they're probably as boring as any atheist is,
   or as any naturalist can be...
plus: it's not nice to shower others with compliments,
as it's never proper
   to admire another person's pair of shoes...
why? because you wouldn't swap them for yours;
the best advice you can give?
   do not give any advice.
               what's the worst compliment you can give
(akin to a woman asking what you're thinking)?
      i like your shoes.

p.s. i've only just realised,
the germans have so so many forms
of the direct article that the english
doesn't, without only the...
but like the rule shared among the two
languages, the indirect article is
plagued by its cousin english -
eine kangaroo, ein aphrodisiac -
                           a cat, an ape.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i'm being a brute on the universally identifiable
colour of defeat, nowhere will you find
a painter entrapped by some sort of apologetics
of drawing a square, or drawing in red, black, white,
but writing leaves you prone to all assortments
of apologetics when your use of language
becomes less poetic and more casual,
and when it becomes casual it hurts, because
the poetics asked for a sense of security
that a reader might experience when the writer
heaves a sigh of relief at writing in the vein
of an edenic root of exposure:
the 2nd eden leaves all the genitalia exposed
(given *******), and all the other limbs
hidden.

— The End —