I) Annunciation

A message great
Unmatched to date
From Almighty
Via an angel,
Irreverence against God
That does not tolerate,
To a pious girl immaculate
Was sent.

While the Holy one
For a prayer bent,
The angel Saint Gabriel,
Himself great,
Descended from high
Above in the sky
And with reverence said
“Behold
There is a message
To be told!

The Holy one
Felicitate, for
In God’s face
Of all women folks
You have
The highest place
As you are
Full of grace
And a pride
To a human race!

A miracle untold
Will unfold
Giving birth to
God, incarnated word,
In your arms
You will hold.”

“It is a life of celibacy
I lead
Far from intimacy
Take note
How could
I take that
Without a grain
Of salt? ”

“Behold
Nothing is impossible
To God
The Almighty is
Sure for every prayer
To pay
By the way
When this to you
I say
The barn old lady Elisabeth
Has got in
The family way!”

“
Let the will of God
Be done
Say more
I shall none!
I have no reserve
God the almighty
To serve!
God has chosen me—
His slave—
Ready troubled waters
From birth to crucifixion(Luke 2:35)
To brave! ”

Because of
Eve’s disobedience,
Place in God’s face
We were forced to lack
Thanks to
Saint Mary’s obedience
We got it back!

How modest
How modest
The Holy one called
Herself a slave
As she knows
Vanity, soul’s rust,
Resides in the dust.
Like the hypocrite
Oneself to exalt
Is a fault,
That is what ****** Mary
Practically taught.

II) Intuition

Up on catching
Saint Mary’s sight
With a face bright
“How could I feel
A comfort zone
When my
Lord’s mother
Climbed up the hill
To congratulate
Me anon? ”

With intuition
Elisabeth repeated
Saint Gabriel’s
Message
Happy given
A chance
To give birth
To a prophet
At her old age.

Here, note
Elisabeth affirmed
Holy Mary does not
Herself exalt.

III) Somersault

In Elisabeth’s womb
John the Baptist
Made a somersault
“Holy ****** Mary
With no fault
That is why
As His throne
You, God sought
As the
Prophets taught!”
Though not
In so many words
He expressed
His thought.

IV) Prophecy

Affirming her
Inviolable
Holiness mandate
Saint Mary said
“Generation
Will call me
Holy Mary
The graceful
The immaculate!
God has done  to me
Things great! ”
Yes, which is why
Generations echo
That to date.

V) Envoy

“In the wedding party
Celebrants have stopped
Short of wine
My son
Do miracles of thine!
You see
Mankind’s problem
Is mine!”
As per her intercession
Jesus turned
The water into wine
In a way that is divine.

On the cross
Jesus said
To his Mother
And Apostle John
“As a mother and son
From now on
Go on you can!”

Yes ****** Mary is
Our mother
Though Devil
—in the mask of a python(Revelation12)
(Snake) tries to
Put us asunder.

As the prophet
Ezekiel (44:2)
Said
Yes, the virgins womb
—The gate –remains
Forever closed
As it was chosen
God to hold.

In the Horeb
Mountain of God,
Moses
Seeing the flame
Of the fire in the bush
He opted forward
To push
He saw
A strange thing
The flame is God
While Saint Mary
The twig.

Till crucifixion, devil
Knew not
The Lord
Is the incarnated word,
Many including Joseph
Knew not
Saint Mary
Is the immaculate
Painted bright
By many a prophet
Till the three wise men
With gifts came to see
Baby Christ
And before him adept
For a prayer opted
To prostrate!

The contra positive of
"God is with you!"
Saint Gabriel's word
Is "In your absence
God is not there!"
Then what is the essence
Of following a faith
In not missing this
That does not
Exercise prudence?

Correctly he is John the Baptizer,
His birth was delayed up to late,
Late post menopausal age of his mother,
Elisabeth the wife of Zachariah the priest,
At the temple of the Jews in Palestine
During the regal time of Rome
As a world empire and a role model of tyranny,

Imagine conceiving after menopause,
During the nonagenarian ages
Of all the ages, in the nineties?
But she conceived John,
Was it true or mere sensationalism?
Or mere nerve chilling art style?
To hold the world audience a hostage?
I don’t know but  John was born
After his mother’s menopause,

He contrasts with Jesus
Born by a ****** Mary,
Imagine a Jewish ******
Without ****** *******
Became pregnant,
And gave birth to Jesus,
When Mary was pregnant
She socially visited Elisabeth
John’s fetus somersaulted,
Like a Chinese acrobat
Inside his mother’s tummy,
It was his baptism before birth,
But may be pregnancy of a ******
Has more strength than pregnancy
Of a post menopause octogenarian,

Hence the famous ode by Catholics;
In the name of Hail Mary
The mother of God
Most blessed above all women,

These post menopause pregnance
And ******‘s pregnancy without ***
Contrasts with Adam’s creation from clay
And Eve’s creation from Adam’s left rib,
Another super-sensational literature,
Or pataphorical art; Magical surrealism?

Let me not go dumb or mute
Like Zachariah when he believed not,
But no, I already believed ergo, my vocality,

Now why did John refuse to put on clothes?
Only to put on a skin of a goat,
Or was it a monkey Clobus,
The one which we in Africa
We are forced to ****
Before your father permits you
To face the circumcision knife,
John again refused to eat cooked foods,
He survived on raw honey and locusts,
Nuts, roots and raw fruits, dietician?

Or it was self denial or self immolation?
Like the one often displayed
by the Islamic statesmen aka terrorists
When committing suicide bombing?
No it began with the Japanese Kamikaze,
In preparation to bomb Pearl Habour,
I don’t know at all at all,

Now what of the howling in the wilderness,
Calling for people to baptism in water
At the riverbanks of polluted Jordan
And when he saw the Negroes
Among those who came for baptism
He called them the viper’s generation
Or were they Libyan Arabs?
And Jesus came, John went inferior,
He declined to baptize Jesus,
But Jesus pleaded for the service,
Then the dove opened the heaven
And came down to anoint Jesus,
Which heaven was opened?
Was the sky or the heaven?
This must be the writer’s Gnostics
Used to calling the sky as the heaven
Why the dove and why the heaven?

Then john again began doubting
Very genuine doubt I m telling you,
You see john began spying on privacy of the king
Was he also a night runner? Maybe,
He spied on Herodias the mother of Salome
She was a chic for the king; Herod Antipas,
This stuff threw John into  a calaboose,
Then John began day dreaming
Like any other prisoner
For his freedom and bush foods
He really missed honey and locusts
And also the fruits; Quavas and mustaberries,

He thought Jesus would come running,
Panting like a cheetah to pull him out,
Out of colonial prison, Jesus never came
Hence Johns doubts;
If Jesus is the Messiah really,
Can’t he come to redeem me?
From these colonial prison Herod,
Look; we are all Jews
In fact blood related Jews
And it is a year he has never come,
To pay me a visit when am in prison
Is he the Messiah really?
Or we still have to wait for a true messiah?

But Jesus was a rude messiah
Or Jesus was jealousy? Envious?
Of John’s spiritual competence,
I think he was wrong, totally wrong
He should have saved john the Baptizer
From the Roman colonial prison,
For there is no need nor spiritual logic
For Jesus to heal the lepers, and the blind
To resurrect Jairus’s daughter
And command the devils out of a madman,
But he could rescue his cousin brother
From a colonial prison, was it detention?
Remember Mary and Elisabeth were sisters,

John was a victim of circumstance
Like those who now languish in torture,
Torture chambers of the quatanamo bay prison,
Detained and tortured inhumanly
Without hope of trial nor justice
For no other reason but faith and race,
John was a harbinger of Sadam Hussein,
Osama Bin Laden, Mummar Gaddafi,
Nelson Mandella, Luther King, Dedan Kimathi,
Elijah Masinde, Arap Manyei and Mugo wa Gatheru,
They fought tyranny with firmness
They underwent torture for the sake of humanity,
They suffered for no reason but folly that goes with tyranny.

And finally, Salome the poet,
Living by performing the spoken word,
And Proceeds of her mother’s adultery
And vampirizing on the blood of the righteous
She came and danced in artful wickedness
by gyrating her ***** satanically
In the usual wicked style of a *****’s daughter
Sending the male audience nerveless with ego
Only for to suggest her prize;
As John’s head on the platter,
John was grisly mattered in the cells
Then his head was delivered on a platter
To Salome the poet the daughter of Herodias,
It all happened when Jesus was aware
Amid the full wind of his wonders
On the crest of his fame as the messiah
Isn’t saving the prisoner good as resurrecting
Young damsels and healing the lepers’?

But anyway, it is stark culture of Europe
To chop off the heads
Of those who oppose their tyranny,
It is not only John the Baptist that have suffered,
Suffered like this in the hands of Europeans tyranny,
The list of such-like victims is endless;
Mugo wa Gatheru was buried alive in Kenya
He was ordered at a gun point
By the British colonial police,
To dig his own grave using a mattock
Then the British clobbered and buried him a live,
On this brutal burial of Mugo wa Gatheru,
The Queen of England promoted these policemen
That buried Mugo wa Gatheru,
Kotalel Arap Samoia of the Nandi Militia in Kenya
Was shot twice in the head by the British spy;
The spy chopped off Koitalel’s head
He took it to the queen in heroic dint
And the queen glorified the spy,
Anglo-American power chopped of sadam’s head
Anglo-American power killed Mummar Gaddafi,
Anglo-American power Killed Osama bin Laden
They perpetrated all these without trial,
I am tired of all these………………

Oval mirror of the sea,
age-warped isle waved and cloudy,
each angle crystalline and salty.
my lens into reality.

Point of space just visible,
focus of beams ineffable,
switch of signals transmissible,
receiver of voices inaudible

At time's edge. No need have I to shout
in fear about this death of mine.
And any creature here is glad
to offer you a glass of wine.

her parents would have nothing to do with the z,
naming her Elisa Beth

which few got right in her 65 seasons, for their habit
molded an EliZabeth every time  

we presume it mattered not to Elisa, Elisa Beth, because she was
born blind and deaf

her record of birth got it right, but her social
security card did not,

the checks were cashed by caretakers, who cared not
whether the letter snaked or zagged

her parents' obits also claimed they were survived by
an only daughter, EliZabeth

when she "met her reward," some two years past
there was no legacy in print

save a death certificate, which again blasphemed
her appellation with the alphabet's final figure

but on her gravestone, curiously, she was Elisabeth once more,
though what flat, mute slab could even such a score?

Silent heart,
Broken heart,
What’s been done to you?

You let them tell you “you are broken”
& So you let it become
True
You cannot see that you are perfect
& So you let them silence
You.

Broken heart,
Silent heart,
What’s become of you?

Elisabeth Pfeffer

Silent heart,
Broken heart,
What’s been done to you?

You let them tell you “you are broken”
& So you let it become
True
You cannot see that you are perfect
& So you let them silence
You.

Broken heart,
Silent heart,
What’s become of you?

Elisabeth Pfeffer

Man
Is the tree,

That bares no fruit
Nor flower,
Leaf
Or heart.

But has those so destructive roots
That rip
This world
Apart.
Elisabeth Pfeffer

I was nineteen, almost twenty
back then. In the fifties.
The small after war mill town
in Lancashire
held dark hope for the future.
Smoke stacks and coal stained
buildings left from the remnants
of the industrial revolution.

Now all I felt in my heart was anger.
No jobs poor wages if you could get one.
But I had my looks and burning passion
to get somewhere in this ****** World.

My dad got me a job in the offices
At the coal mine where he was a miner.
it was on the
bottom rung of the ladder
I hated it, but it was a job.
That's where I met her, my boss.
The eldest daughter of the mine owner.

She was pretty and spoiled.
Well educated
at rich daddy's expense I guessed.
But used to her own way.
Nepotism was rife in those days.
She was thirty four but she kept
looking at me almost inspecting me.
Like her next toy I thought

But I was nineteen.  
I had never been with a woman
And she was well built and pretty.
She spoke to me gently and respectfully.
Like a teacher does to a pupil.

And as I listened all I could notice
Were her beautiful breast
and the impressive cleavage
In her blouse.

Every morning is he smiled at me
and wished me  good day.
What she did not know she had starred
In my ******  dream last night and in it
Her expensive clothes lay carelessly
On the  floor next to the bed,
That we were sharing.

She spent time with me
and taught.me a lot
about the business.
Her family owned half the town.

I had to work the weekend
the auditors were coming in
on monday morning early.
At seven o'clock on Saturday evening
we finished our preparations.

Thank you so much she said softly.
You must be famished I am.
She took me into town
in her MG sports car.
We ate at nice pub I had
three glasses of red wine.
I liked it I had never drank wine before.

She said do you have a girl.
I blushed no miss.
Why not, you are very nice looking.
Have you not found one lady
that you would like to ask out.

Yes miss I.mumbled there's one.
She looked at me I thought
I saw a tiny bit of jealousy.
But it could be the wine.
Who is she?
tell me about her it was half an order.

I called upon the glow
of my new found wine friend and said.
She's beautiful miss.
Very very stylish.
Lovely figure
and perfect gray eyes.
I don't think I have ever seen
a woman as lovely as her.

She sounds lovely she said.
But I noticed she was a bit miffed.
Why don't you ask her out.?
Because I don't think
she would accept miss.
Look she said out of the office
You may call me Elisabeth all right.
I said yes miss….er... Elizabeth.
Who is this lady you talk of anyway?

It's …..its you miss.
She went silent.
Looking at me intently.
Have I lost my job miss I asked.
No you haven't its alright.
I am much older than you.
It would not be appropriate.

Men go with ladies
much younger than they are miss.
Yes I know they do.

She took me back to the small
flat she kept in the city.
For nights that
she may be out on the town.
It was cosy and comfortable.
She poured more wine.

Why have you never married? I asked.
She smiled.
Because all those
that asked I didn't love,
all those I loved did not ask
she quipped.

I took my jacket off
it was warm with the wine.
And  the closeness to her.
My small pocket novel sided girlie
magazine fell out of the inside pocket.
I grabbed it quickly.

but she saw it.
Let me see it she said.
I passed it to her blushing.
She looked at the pictures
of the large breasted naked ladies.
They are lovely she said.

They are not as lovely as you are miss.
Have you ever been with a lady.
She asked.
I blushed no not yet,.
She said its time you did.

Taking my hand
she led me to her bedroom.
I am not sure what to do I whispered.
Hush hush now come to me,
She took me slowly and patiently.

I felt my childhood leave my body
Irrevocably rushing into her as my
manhood appeared in its place.

I slept in her arms and
when  I woke in the night.
she took me again
and held my head
onto her beautiful breast
as I slept like a child.

After that she took me to her place
after work almost every day,
She took me to her bed
and we made love.

After  few months I came into work
she called me into her office.
She looked troubled.
I thought I was getting fired.

But she said I'm pregnant.
In those days abortions
were illegal and dangerous.
And out of  wedlock babies poured
shame on lady and family.

She said I want this baby.
I told my mother
She broke it to daddy.
He's furious he wants to see you
in his office now.

I nearly collapsed
with fear and. confusion.
But I made my way to the
managing director's office.
He was a big man with a
moustache and silver hair.
Noted for his temper.

He said I make no bones about it.
You are not suitable
to a member of my family.
I had my lawyer draw up an agreement.
and termination package.

He brought out his checkbook.
He wrote a cheque payable to me
for thirty thousand pounds.
An enormous sum in those days.
Move on leave town
and never bother Elisabeth again.
He said strictly.

I do not know where
I got the courage from.
I looked at the cheque.
And thought of my
hundred and five pounds net worth.
And I tore it half.

Sir, You can fire me,
blacklist my name
in the north of England .
Make my life a living hell.
you have this power I know.
.
But I shall not leave Elisabeth
unless she tells me to go.
And even then
I do not want your money.

He stopped silently.
He always got his way,
No one ever talked back at him.
But.
There was something about this boy
that reminded him of himself so long ago
when he had not two penny's
to rub together.
and truth be known,
he married his wife Maud
because she was pregnant.

Very well
we will call my errant daughter.
and she can tell you to go herself.

Elizabeth came in the room
Her pretty eyes.
Red from crying.
Tell him to go daughter
he commanded.

I offered him thirty
thousand pounds to go away.
But he tore up the cheque.
He wants to hear you
to tell him to leave.
And he will leave
without a penny.

She looked up into my face
She saw the love
in my eyes that I had for her.

Do you want me she asked.
I answered
yes I do

Do you want this baby
she asked firmly
Yes I do.

Do you want to marry me
she asked?
Yes I do .

Old Abel her father knew defeat
when it was inevitable.
Alright against my blessing
you get married next week in white.
No bride of my family
Will go to altar great with child.

Ten years later

Abel had retired
And became the doting grandfather
To  our four children.
After the twins were born
then a year later his granddaughter
a year later his grandson.
he realised that his daughter
was the happiest women
in the north.of England.

.And his son in law
was  good husband and father.

I ran the mine
and expanded his interest
into electronics manufacturing.

We sit together on the river bank
sometimes Elizabeth and me.
I say l love you honey.
You are still the most beautiful woman
i have ever been with.

She laughs
i am the only woman
you have been with
I corrupted you as a youth.

.I am so happy you never
asked me to leave
that day in his office.
She smiled.
No,
I proposed to you instead,my  love.

Why did you not accept the huge sum
of money he offered and run.

Because
Of something you once said
about not being married
What's that then she questioned
All the ones you loved
did not ask you.
And
You were the one I loved
and you did ask me

I am Mary
Looking upon Lydia with disdain
Oh how I'd love to look like Jane
But truly
I want to be Elisabeth
I am Mary
Waiting for someone to answer me
Oh how I wish I was the same
But really
I want to be Elisabeth
I am Mary
And I try to be the best
Oh how I try to tease and jest
But truly
I only look a fool
I am Mary
Holding myself above all else
Oh how I'm told to be myself
But really
I want to be Elisabeth

.english colonialism used to be passive-aggressive, english post-colonialism is a strange dynamic of former colonial nations playing the endgame of colonialism with non-affiliated nations of the british empire (affiliated by trade anyway, although not based upon origins of the ruling elite's extending arm), there's a hot topic in england between the irish and the polish, the irish are provoking the polish into racism so someone else can look smug with a pakistani friend on the london tube.

you know the amount of pain i see writing my father's
invoices of manual labour with the irish *****
apparently running
the show protecting northern
irish outputs of poetry and cigarette smuggling -
keeping us migrants "in check"?
god the loathing,
i try to improvise each invoice
with an excess knowledge
of the english tongue to break through,
but my sole considering comforter
is still death,
**** this *******, i rather die
than see my father's eyes eye me
hurtful hopeful of seeing my "bright new life"
when i was nearly murdered by
an egyptian school-friend / childhood friend
and later told: boy you better pretend you're
mad... boy my ***, your father is just
an x-ray technician... go back
to the northern africa of your
pretending to be a semite and build
another pyramid... *******, **** all of this,
days of casual pretentious squeaky clean
non-offensive poetry are over...
gentlemen - let's broaden our minds... swear a little
take up oaths with truth...
we were born to down a pint of concrete before
ireland was born, rushing out of pubs
when the call was made: concrete has arrived!
run, run run run! break legs and whatnot,
because in an irish pub talking to a homeless
person in akimbo giving him a cigarette
is cause for argument with an irish girl
trying to get, familiar;
unlike the sword, a stick has two ends...
you can smack someone with it,
but then someone can rebel and grasp the same
stick and smack you with it, for a suckling
taste of a kiss in memory of reprimanding manners.

- and i do remember the good stuff coming
out of h'america...
    i once owned a copy of blue valentine
by tom waits on c.d.: scratched that record
from over-playing it...
found a vinyl copy in the shop today...
splashed out a staggering £20 on it...
lucky for me the mp3 record comes free...
     £20 is a lot?
       well... better that £20 which played
in the background as i finished off decorating
the kitchen...
   rage 2 deluxe edition for ps4 -
      £44.99... so sure... i splashed out...
          thank god i'm not a gamer...
with games it's like with movies...
   notably? vikings season 1...
     i thought i could watch it a second time...
couldn't...
   a bit of a hit and miss...
    with games and movies...
      when the narrative gets exhausted...
and you're still honing in on the narrative
whether a passive spectstor or the role player
in the game...
but investing in an album?
       background background...
and an almost infinite array of the comeos
against the record...
   one cameo decorating a kitchen
another cameo finishing the day off with
some cider on a windowsill...
   but once upon: that's what h'america was
about... united we stand,
divided we fall... blah blah...
           and it looks like that right now...
the cultural export zenith peaked and it isn't
coming back...
   not for a while at least...
now we only look at not the united
         but the balkanized states of europe...
the states pulling at each other:
where once there was a cohesive collective
      export of pure cancan h'americana...
tom waits' blue valentine...
                          now i'll am getting
"culturally" is a bunch of vlogger content...
export of problems,
existential qualms without support on
existential pillars from continental thought
of 20th century europe...
   19th century doesn't count:
   not even nietzsche does: but kierkegaard
doesn't.

what are those lyrics from that vomito *****
song enemy of the state?
we shall send you, in ever increasing number:
ships, planes, tanks, guns: that is your purpose
and, our pledge... (1941 state of the union speech
sample)

most americans are not aware that soon
the primary export of our national economy
won't be cars, or food, or microwaves.
instead we'll be exporting death.
instead will be exporting death.

   perhaps, once upon a time...
now the export is quiet different,
   at its cultural zenith of exported values...
it would seem h'america choked on
a bitter pill... h'america no longer provides
the sort of culture worth exporting,
notably in cinema in music...
                               in literature...

the behemoth lost all of its juggernaut
momentum... and stumbled into rehashing old
ideas... it's not plagiarizm as such:
more a plagiarizm ex per se...

norman davies: god's playground -
   1795 to the present:

the Belweder is a palace in Warsaw...
(belvedere: a beautiful view)
constructed in 1660 -
  the White House in Washington D.C.
constructed in circa 1796...
by god, what a similarity!

   polish emigration to the u.s.a.:
in social terms their educational and communal
organizations are less effective than those of
the ukranians,
   in political terms their problems
command less notice than those of the blacks,
chicans or amerindians...
in the vicious world of the american ethnic jungle,
the 'stupid and ignorant Pole' is a standard
stereotype... once the noble lord...
reasons no doubt exist: like the irish and
the sicilians... the greatest influx came from
Galicia containing a large number of
the 'wretched refuse': people so oppressed
by poverty and near-starvation:
supressed linguistically, religiously...
the instinct of mere survival...
accepted the most degrading forms of employment...
exploitation: 'industrial *******'...
they were the gangers of the great american
railway age...
a canadian textbook can be cited
(j. s. wordsworth, strangers within our gates,
toronto 1972):
'it is hard to think of the people of this
nationality other than in that vague class of
undesirable citizens' -
   very much like to today:
   to think of canadians being a people
beloning to the making of mankind -
    without the canadian concept of mankind
being: peoplekind...
even woodrow wilson (then) prof. at prince-ton
deemed the Poles to be 'inferior'.

- but who was to ever to keep grudges...
grand torino - the movie, starring and directed
by clint eastie-boy-sparking-wood...
waldermar kowalski... dumb pollack...
why do poles no integrate within a community
bias as such?
                   the proverb:
if you want to succeed within a framework
of immigration: steer away from your
fellow countrymen...

                     almost all other cultures that
come, but the host's nitty-picky:
oh look at our asian labradors...
why can't you lick our ***** like they can?
etc. one example out of the many...
some people, i guess: prefer to be in
the background...
post-colonial powers need tokens...
akin to a sadiq khan:
papa was an immigrant bus-driver -
quick step up from daddy being a bus driver
to the position of mayor of london...
browny points!

the english are smug like this:
you hear even today -
WE WON'T BE SORRY FOR OUR
FATHER'S AND FOREFATHER'S SINS...
not for our colonial past...
they say that consciously -
but subconsciously they are scoring
brownie points...
        i can't say they're doing this
unconsciously: since if they were:
there would be a unanimous concensus
and no: "diversity is our strength"
agenda...

             besides... you can't exactly
conquer an island...
the norman conquest of 1066? it wasn't really
a conquest: for a conquest to actually take
place you'd require the native population
to be displaced / replaced by the invading
force - akin to the saxon invasion...
'don't touch, their, women...
we don't breed with these people...
what sort of people would you think
that would breed? weak people... half people'
(king Cerdic from the film king arthur 2004)...
proof being?
when the normans invaded and "conquered"...
they simply replaced the ruling saxon elite...
hence? the domesday book...
the ruling elites were being replaced
and the new ruling elites wanted to have
an account of who they were going to rule...
it was less a conquest and more:
a change of guard... since...
            the locals were first investigated
and subsequently left to their own devices...
there was no conquest:
               as such...
                but you can get on with your
day-to-day life on an island with natural
fortifications (the ******* sea)...
and produce your little whizz-kids down
the years...
   but imagine being squeezed by:
prussia... russia, the ottomans,
                  the mongols...
                             the swedes...
                and subsequently by the austro-hungarians...
matka królów (the mother of kings),
i.e.: Elisabeth von Habsburg...

   in conclusion... oh to hell with the whole
"incel" label... you have to pay for something
in the end... why not skip the *******'s worth
of pleasantries: the dating masquerade
and not get into the nitty-gritty with a *******
in one smooth stroke of a count worth an hour?
no hard-on shyness that way...
no ****-teasing...
whatever is an erectile dysfunction outside
of the brothel... doesn't seem to bother
whittle wichy while in a brothel...
so go figure...
                and relating to the stories of incels...
hmm... maybe it's the fickle women...
last time i checked...
i picked up a thai bisexual in a park,
a random stranger...
                took her home,
some beer, some jazz...
                  ****** her in the garden...
        i don't even think it's the case of
"i can't get laid" with these incels...
     english women: nuns on the outside...
latex gimp suited **** black boot licking
*** fiends in the bedroom...
   the madonna-***** complex...
the only aspect of Freud that resonates with me...

you know what, never mind...
      i'm just happy i collect vinyls...
free mp3 copy to boot...
and instead of spending 40+ quid on a game
that will become exhausted after one sitting /
completion (these are not arcade games,
nor are they the "free" new wave of games,
the ones where you play "superior"
opponents with a handicap -
since you didn't pay any in-game updates,
patience is a virtue,
   and someone people invest real money
into these games, but are still **** at them,
plus, these new wave games never really end...
i'll be dead and i won't be able to finish them,
added bonus? there's no NPC dimension
to them, added strategy: with a complete loss
of narrative / story-telling, genius!)
plus... how much does a vinyl player cost?
you can get one for under 70 quid...
sometimes vinyl bargains: under a tenner...
this one though, for 20 quid...
1 vinyl worth 20 quid once every two months?
oh yeah... i really splashed out on this one!

woman is a grand idea though...
    there is so much of woman i would be able
to love, if only the practicality of woman
wouldn't be associated...
alas: reality bites...
                       regrets...
                                  aged 33 and i feel as if...
i have managed a good enough sample
where both sexes can coexist within the confines
of me entertaining them:
as if they were to never meet and "preserve"
the "fate" of "humanity"...
      i'm pretty sure there are plenty of people
who have been bullied into this trap
associated with the otherwise "intelligent"
dodo mentality...
                          besides, i'm about to find out,
whether or not, they sell liter bottles of whiskey...
using my braille tally:

            ⠁ ⠃ ⠇ ⠧ ⠷ (⠿)
            1  2  3   4  5  (6)
             a  b  l   v  à  (é)

                        from what i drank yesterday
for that lullaby... i'm starting to supect that:
what they label as a liter... is actually more -

    if after ⠷⠻ ⠷⠻ (i.e. 50ml  20x) i'm not left
with an empty bottle... well then i'm not left
with an empty bottle.

Last week, you saw the sun bleed itself on the empty sky and give rise to a million stars. And you thought of her. Absent mindedly, you touched your wedding ring loosely wrapped around your finger. You sipped your coffee and wondered what was it that made the sun and moon rise and set? You envied how oblivious they remained to the suffering of this world. A couple of more sips led you to think how your life has pretty much been like them too, spinning uncontrollably, not listening to your suggestions or demands. Till you found her. And suddenly your universe had a focal. Last few months had been tough.
It has been like two ghosts living in a house, unaware of each others presence. You missed her, you wanted to hug her, and hold her till she found her way back to you.
But every time you tried to talk to her, she would break down and then fade off. It was like there was an invisible wall growing in between you two and you did not know how to cross it. Not without her opening the door and letting you in.
It has been 4 months since the test came positive. The doctor said it was the last stage of cancer. And that they were sorry. They had been having a fight over room renovation when they got the call. They were to visit the doctor asap.
Elisabeth could not believe it. It would be easier to take it in had Michael not gone numb. At first, he thought it was a joke. A cruel one. But after half an hour of arguing and no camera person coming to tell them "you have been pranked" he had to give in.
The drive to home was quiet. Neither knew what to say. Unlike the movie scenes, there were no emotional dialogues or crying. There was just a quiet all over the place.
Since neither of them felt like  eating, they went to bed.
Elisabeth had her back turned to Michael, but after a hour two, she was clutching to Michael for the life of her, sobbing madly.
And seeing her cry made him break down as well. He had never cried in all his adult life. And together they sobbed. That night was the last conversation they had. Elisabeth asked Michael to move on. But this act of bravery could not last for long and in between her muffled sobs, she asked to save her, he said he did not know how. And she had looked up in his eyes and said never forget me. And with her head on his chest, her consciousness had finally drifted to faroff place. She would occasionally mutter something in her sleep and shiver and hold on to him closer. He was her safe haven and he knew it. He wished he could save her, but he did not know how to.

The qualms of morning seemed so silly now. It is so tragic how we let the little things take away from us the greater moments. We think we have enough time. And that is the thing, we never know that the kiss we had would be our last.
So i m writing this to let you know there is nothing you would regret more than not being able to show your love while you still had the chance to.
Let your partner know you love her, take her on a long drive, send her unexpected flowers. Smile at strangers. Listen to your grandparents. And send love letters to your parents
While you still have the chance to do it. I don't.

And now that I think about it, I regret how I let those little things take away from me, the happiness I could have given her and the memories with whom I'll have to live my life

pass that crown make me Queen
now I need an army
to keep the crown on my head

and the head of the rightful Queen Of Scots

this pit in my stomach





lets me know

that i am freaking
the ****
out.

it feels good.
insanity is running through the roots of my hair


when i remembered today
that you are probably
shaving your *****

in preparation


for Elisabeth



I'm rooting for you, you disgusting weasel.
i hope it's the best ******* will ever give anyone


and i hope it means

nothing to her

LINES WRITTEN WITH TEARS
Gp Capt Matloob Bokhari



In the midst of corpses without arms,
In the midst of corpses without heads,
In the midst of corpses, drenched in blood,
In the midst of corpses, without coffins,
In the midst of corpses, stood the pride of Islam.
On a corpse pierced with arrows, Zainab  screamed:
“I cannot identify, are  you  my brother Hussain?”
My friends, Have you read a tragedy  darker than this?
A sister unable to recognize her brother, so ruthlessly slain!


COMMENTS  :  LINES WRITTEN WITH TEARS

Farzana Altaf: Very touching indeed, a poet who can feel, taste, weep, laugh his poetry in his reader's heart and soul has accomplished much...
Kristine Nicholson: This is a poignant expression of sorrow, Matloob. War is always ugly. Sincerely,  Truth survives, although human life is ephemeral. Ken
Arkay Evans:This is truly beautiful; it reads as a river of tears begins - flowing and healing to the sea...I pray you are well, lifted and comforted on your journey. Blessings
Xpuaa : Indeed lines written with tears. Moving! and congrats this poem needs courage and sincerity to be written!!!!
Iulia Gherghei :very touching!!!!..that is the measure of humanity!!!
Kristen Scott: Zainab suffered and bore it with strength and dignity . it's amazing and heartfelt Matloob ~  K.
Sandra Delussu:  Matloob. you go on touching my heart..
Michael Edward Clearman: May the message of this poem water the earth with its truth.
Sandra Delussu: a knife in the heart! and it is but a drop in the ocean of suffering what we try to feel...  dear Matloob the figure of such a great woman comes shining in the souls of those who didn't know her! go on telling us! Enmity starts in frustration. frustration starts in ignorance! taking along pretending serving God's will!!!!...such blindness only can speak to blindness...but we're not blind!
Shareef Abdur-Rasheed: REEEEEAAALLLL!!!!This is no joke,WORLD!! This bloodshed, carnage got to stop!!How can the world turn their back and shut their eyes?? akhi This piece and others addressed to this critical issue are vital to raising awareness in a preoccupied world who are "Numb, deaf, dumb, blind to genocide until it knocks on their door! Jazak Allah Khair for raising consciousness!!
Alma Delacruz Gossman: We are not blind! We just simply refuse to really see! Excellent  your compassion and dignity are unshakable...and I so admire your conviction and belief in the greater good...we mustn't ever give up...and the messages of those who truly see, like you, must continue and we ALL need to hold that torch up high, as many remain in the dark by choice, often swayed in the wrong direction by those led by their ego, rather than their hearts and souls. Thank you for shedding your loving light and make so many aware that just refuse to see or who are shut off from the truth! Bravo! Thank you for writing the harsh reality, that many a man had truly blown it for far too many!  You create an awareness that truly needs to resonate in each of us! If only more would take their blinders off and really see!
Sophia Brownie :I CANT EVEN BEGIN TO IMAGINE SEEING THIS.
Shahzia Batool : though i always think that the best comment on any poem is "SPEECHLESS" ,but as i am the student and  teacher of poetry  so i always try to use words of appreciation and the just words...i read the poem twice and read the comments as well . it's a very consoling  and comforting thing that you have a strong voice ,and people listen to your voice...symbols  and allegory are your tools and you know how to weave images. You are loyal to the promise of existence...matloob sb  it is divinely ordained to expose the evil forces...by any substantial effort ! May you be blessed and heard !
Isabelle Black Smith:  Cannot even begin to imagine the depth of sorrow, loss and helplessness. You make us stop and think.
Maurin Alessandro :Good words my dear friend. So sad, but is a true history .. I am from Brazil and has a  musical group.  Can I sing this  awesome poem?
Gail Wolper :terribly sorrowful. I am sad.
Gary Leikas:  sounds like you were with Krishna and Arjuna at Kurukshetra .
Carole Semeniuk : NO.. I cannot imagine not being able to recognize my brother in life, or death............. very searing poem to the heart my friend . Your words cut through the heart... and make one appreciate the pain and agony of this moment................................... well done . Such a tender compassionate Soul you are!
Karyn Walker: Beautiful lines, Matloob  'Why good suffers and evil prospers?' It does for a reason Matloob. But you and I both have seen them fall. Sad part is that sometimes it takes so long. Evil provokes Evil that's a paradox in itself. That's why we pray so much because that is what it ends up taking: Prayer.
Jennifer Long: oh my..... So powerful the imagery and the punch of the rhythm, and the words. this is a great piece of writing!
Satyender ParkashAas:  Progressive, fine personification of darkness, cloud.  Matchless!
Lone-elisabeth Berg Jakobsen: I read it twice, and I love it so much I had tears in my eyes, I am very sensitive and it is very strong and beautiful.
Jeannette Mendoza Dalling : no words to describe the sadness this cause's me , that so many live like this .
Leo Riccio :sad. beyond words



Blessed-Heart - Hi my friend, may your day be filled with joy, peace, and much harmony. And your heart filled with love and kindness. Enjoy your rest of your day. Moved to read these moving lines!!!! Nancy

How many times a day,
You look back and say:
"I was so bad to John,
I can,t be unkind."
John went to paradise,
Peace he will find.


How many times a day I cry,
Don,t say no because you lie.
It was not true what you said to Evelyn,
You are not fat, you are slim.
She is on rigorous diet,
I love you I can bet.


How  many times a day can you have ***,
And you have been waiting for the next.
Did you make love with Elisabeth?
No, I haven,t as much I have expected,
I don,t have enough  cash.

Victor Marques

She walks on water as the stars reflect
their shining brightness only lightening
her paradisiacal face and unclothed body
beauty may have it's layers, hers always
more than skin deep in the selfless benevolence she
gives forth in every interaction she herself
engages herself within,

In my years of wandering, I have never found
a soul I feel so compelled toward, frightening even
myself with my augmenting attachment and need
to hear her voice, feel her soul, listen to her heartbeat
to see her smile, and know her stories and tales from
the days that passed between the time we last spoke
my heart skipping beats,

An internal battle brings forth, an ever forging narrative
of realistic practicalities and the contrasting drifting
dream lands, entwined with fantasy and longing,
fears and hearts, left on the line, of a blurring demise
restore my heart, set me free, allow me to love,
let me
be
hers.

© Sia Jane
---

“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

so i have this book my Steφan, and here the
unpredictability: Steven?            even elevens?
                       Stephen
Steven          Stephan? no matter, the joke
comes with the diacritics         in the surname...
      they wrote /ˈʊmlaʊt/
when the diacritical marks weren't investigated:
  is that Körner as in ariθmetic
     Koorner?
       or is the poncy
    Kœrner - which is
softer and therefore almost Kerner?
the book? fundamental questions
of philosophy -
hence the dialectical applicability
of diacritics: archeology in vivo:
oh no glass chandeliers darling:
            butchery rather than anatomy:
chop
        chop
                chop
                 ­         (oh looky looky, Jacob's ladder).
y = id est.
                  w? haven't figured it out,
looks like trigonometry to me,
all that sine and cosine jazz.
         you know that mystery of lawlessness?
English, plain and simple,
the English language: good that we had the Scandinavians
and the Dutch learn it better than the natives,
mind you, also the Belgians,
they speak a foreign tongue better than
the ****** natives:
the natives? they speak some urban slang
profanity: diabolical verse;
                                        putrid ****:
sulphuring smoke, astounding.
              reverse dead Latin / living -
was that comma necessary?
  or should i have written astounding sulphuring
smoke?
             or Sartre: existence (quantity)
     precedes essence (quality) -
         qua qua either way, a mode of being,
   duck here, duck there.
          oh me, right? *******, maddened,
i was hanging in the trenches and had a drink:
now i'm really mad, bursting like a tense
   soap bubble: (a bit of nostalgia to cool the nerves)
i come from a generation that listened to
mortiis - and we actually bought the silverware
(c.d.) rather than the liquorice (vinyl),
               and we were the ones that translated hardware
into software (mp3) -
         but as a thoughtful suggestion:
scratched c.ds,
                   right, you have a c.d. and you try
to encode it into mp3... right...
    why is it that scratched compact disks can completely
**** up an iPod? i.e. why can't iPods encode
scratched compact disks?
            cheaper mp3 players can do it,
no problem, you have a scratched c.d.
and translate it into mp3: boom, the whole iPod
shuts down... try a cheaper mp3 player
and the whole thing still works...
          well, it's just a curiosity...
the bigger ones comes from:
i'm probably one of the last dinosaurs to have
actually bought a ******* magazine
from a newsagent,
     the glamour model type,
nothing **** included,
               and feel the agonising shame of
predicating a ******* session -
                  bony **** of the hand -
            looking for soft pouch kangaroos and all,
but how many people these days buy this ****?
       in Belgium i bought one and the woman
was so not condescending that i thought i was buying
penny sweets...
                      there's this culture of ****** shaming
in England that surprasses me in engaging
in relationships, i don't know what these slags
are on, but it's certainly not tango in stilettos
on cobblestones.
                    of course i'm mad,
i tried to rebel against Christianity and got
****** into practising it, i actually forgave my
enemy, a jealous **** who almost killed me,
       and as Nietzsche said: a Christian is a
sick domesticated animal -
              i could have been still rooted to the longship
roofs while roofing, or metrosexual lumberjack
     in an office, concerning paper rather than
blocks of wood.
     but good to know that all of Europe is known
as the bloc, rather than the eastern fringes,
god i love English arrogance, which = ignorance,
now wave bye bye to the Galactic Empire:
******* engraved Latin without barbaric diacritical
marks and had a shot at world *******...
  **** me! even the Greeks are applying refinement,
no wonder the digital sprechen dragged
English into the dark ages if not the caveman
        chant Darwinism! chant Darwinism! hoot, hoot hoot!
rarely do i desecrate books,
                 but i had to write on something,
i have a copy, of Kant's critique,
and in it my macabre Dionysian zenith fury
statement:
                       power is never a cul de sac,
                         for a king to don a crown,
                         a peasant must pocket a penny,
                         if a peasant doesn't pocket
                         a penny, a king doesn't don
                         a crown      (note, colon and italics
translate as bold inscript, double emphasis) -
this isn't cryptic, it's ****** obvious,
       it goes way back in suggesting
we're either smart or naive -
           or playing the adult version of hide & seek
                                    doubt & negation interplay,
so when Charlie Chuckles the Third comes to
power i'll be thinking of Charles the First:
as i told one homeless woman i sat down with
for a cigarette under a bridge and told her
of the Henry VIII likening in terms of the
decapitated wives...
                                    she got up and ran screaming
down the street. true story.
                 only in America a humming sensation
and a deliberate ploy to create a monarchy...
              call it what you like:
you appease the illiteracy of people with only
one book, and have people speak about it
without pontiff or priestly attire: you're bound
to breed a viral infection desiring a king.
         is this the second Elisabeth-ian age? might be,
well, it's nearing an end, anyway...
                        still, English is a lawless language
that transcends all tact of French flawlessness -
                  those nasal harking buggers know all too
well the covert aesthetic they write
      and the counter they speak -
                  leave the exactness of spoken and written
to the Poles, and spaghetti chemistry to the German
excess of compounds hydrocarbon etc.,
                    di-proxy-blah-blah in hyphen-centric
Essex.
            well, because if we can't have proper discussions
about our beliefs, we might are well apply
diacritical investigation into diacritical markings,
  or how long you hold your breath between
.                ,                     ;              -              
                  because that's what i'm suggesting:
invariably this suggestion is pulverising -
                             or how that famous category
of universals (metric)
                          is usurped by particulars (imperial) -
within the bracketed suggestion: units,
                   Francophile centimetre
      Darth Vader inch....
                                                Charles de Gaulle kilometre
                              a Heathrow mile.
if this was a chemistry experiment, which it is,
               i'd suddenly realise it's over,
                                                      and it is
because i feel a sudden rush of radiant cooling down
     from what charged this outburst in the first place.

I know Simon’s a court poet. To dedicate
Odes to monarchs’s survival. Raymond as
A philosopher valued life’s democratic state,
I honour monarchy as any man, at last,

In whose heart the Empire’s spirit beating,
Long live the Commonwealth for time all!
By Nika for all time became blessed Britain,
The country army scare foes all!

And the Queen is the brand for all the world,
All ministers’ll retire but not the Queen!
I have not seen a monarch nobler from of  old,
Who honours just so traditions’, honour’s being.

Thank you for giving inspiration to the poet
For his poems, by your own greatness.
Thus, rule for the population’s good great,
Setting an example for other rulers.
{2019}

КОРОЛЕВЕ ЕЛИЗАВЕТЕ II

Я знаю, что сейчас поэт придворный Саймон,
И оды посвящать монархам – прошлый век!
И как демократизм ценил философ Раймон,
Монархию я чту, как каждый человек,

В чьём сердце бьётся дух Империи Великой –
Содружества Союз да здравствует в веках!
Британия всегда благословенна Никой,
И армия страны врагам вселяет страх!

И Королева есть как Бренд международный:
Министры все уйдут, но Королева есть!
Не видел в жизни я монарха благородней!
Кто точно также чтит традиции и честь!

Спасибо Вам за то, что дали вдохновенье
Поэту на стихи величием своим!
Так правьте же ещё во благо населенья,
Давая так пример правителям другим!
{11.11.2019}

Translator - I. Toporov

Christmas Knowing
We mourn the life of Elisabeth Edwards a life
Truly that was Magnificence blasted
She truly will be home for Christmas

It happens imperceptibly on any given winters frosty morn the Christmas spirit returns where has it been many places here are the
Most important places Heaven and church houses the angels and carolers coalesce in this regard both act kind of alike both groups
Highly anticipate this time and then they both seem to rush out unknowing they bring the holy hush and sacred atmosphere along
Since they rush out at such speed it has no time it remain with them and then the other places the Christmas spirit resides in last year’s empty
Boxes quietly put away in closets, attics, and back bedrooms or in drawers with ribbons and even on the sharp edges of scissors that
Were used to cut wrapping paper and this spirit slowly recedes to far corners of rooms in all our homes it never really is gone it was
To strong mingled with love joy and laughter and hearts and souls of families you call it forth by speaking on the phone or speaking
To one another about it in the depths of each soul it has such a density it is layered by all that makes Christmas so great and real
It’s like blowing on embers that seem finished but by your gentle breath life is renewed at first just a small glow but with persistence
The reward a tiny flame and then the Yule log itself catches fire the inward dormant spirit floods the home on the wings of the cozy
Fire momentarily turn your attention to the outside what pleasure you can be the loneliest rejected person but driving by you see a
Families tree in the window what is it like the silver moonlight when it drenches the darkness it Illuminates everything it touches it is soft
You soften as well by looking at their tree you are seeing and feel welcome you magnify the setting to grand and immeasurable true
Depths your eyes pulled from the scene but not from the lasting effects of being conscious undivided from others and the love they
Feel for one another then returning in doors and especially filled with delight if your neighbor is one that has his yard and house
Decorated as much as you do you have to go look out the window for another look your window absolutely beautiful not only the
Tree is glory dressed in ***** of all colors deep greens with white powdered flow lines tiny Santa smiling beside rooftop chimney red *****
With brown reindeers blue with widows each square filled with snow then your own window sprayed with snow from a can the little
Trees that were cut out like paper cut out dolls sprayed over then when they were removed left perfect trees of glass surrounded
By the snow spray, feel Christmas in the air if it were an older Christmas there would be tops as big as upside down bowls with a point
Red with wide yellow rings with children painted in blue a long curled rod would protrude from the top and it would finish with a wood
Handle shove it down several times pull your hand off watch it whirl a more extravagant gift a Ferris wheel a foot high yellow dream
With blue stars splashed about get lost in this twirling wonder down and up it goes beautiful dolls compete toy dish sets tea anyone
A large view of the room candles on the mantle loved ones look from pictures in frames on walls and tables but as I have said before
How much more they are present in the living that contain everything that they were when physically present now they are dispersed
Through the tiniest treasures some small enough to nuzzle your neck try to buy that and put it under the tree there breath is present
In yours their spirits more real and stronger than the timbers that hold the structure over your head to move from the Christmas spirit
To the human spirit a few years ago an experiment showed a lighting type of energy in flux coming from a human body they estimated
Its power would reach levels of atomic proportions if harnessed then unleashed you’re not from monkeys and you’re not weak clay
That can be easily erased we already know we are eternal an a room filled with loving caring families are unbeatable nothing can
Compare to it this is the envy of time and eternity only His love out shines it and is more valued comfort knows no bounds but it rests within
Wooden walls and halls decked with holly love the legal true tender of Christmas enjoy spend it with abandonment there are a lot
Who hurt the whole year it is now a fight to even say Merry Christmas or Happy Hanukah worse it has become unimportant how sad
There is such a thing as being too modern we need to find the old sign post give them our allegiance speak truthfully be kind this uplifts
A nation and its people

12\7\10 The honored dead of punch bowl and Pearl whisper softly.
Life contrasts with death but gives birth to harmony.
The dead guide the living into a higher arena.
We are called and pressed by the common that are now lofty

Death walked up to me one night,
Slipped me a cigarette
We sat beneath the stars beneath my dorm room window,
Death said, “I haven’t touched you yet”
The next day I heard the church bells toll,
My colleague from theater, swung free of her bonds
The whole campus chorusing, their Kyrie Eleison
Who could’ve known? Who could’ve known?
I knew, Death walked in her just as it did me,
I watched Death take her aside and haunt her as she desperately tried
To find an anchor, to find solace, well hers and mine became the theater
When I saw Death with her I envied her the company,
Our morbid fixations sought through our scripts, both of us cast
The same character,
Both of us popping pills carefully hidden in little soap boxes,
Boxed up with wine and razors in care packages from the same lover

Death sat with me the other night,
Held a bandage to my wrist and lay me to bed
He lifted his hood, wiped the tears from my eyes,
Begged me to dance again, on ankles slit,
Caressing me as Elisabeth

Now I’ve been kissed,
Kyrie Eleison,
We shared the same stage, once,
Tell me what's waiting there for me
Beyond the mist of Chapel Hill

Le prêtre portera l'étole blanche et noire
Lorsque les saints flambeaux pour vous s'allumeront.
Et de leurs longs cheveux voilant leurs fronts d'ivoire
Les jeunes filles pleureront.
A. Guiraud.

I.

Pourquoi m'apportez-vous ma lyre,
Spectres légers ? - que voulez-vous ?
Fantastiques beautés, ce lugubre sourire
M'annonce-t-il votre courroux ?
Sur vos écharpes éclatantes
Pourquoi flotte à longs plis ce crêpe menaçant ?
Pourquoi sur des festons ces chaînes insultantes,
Et ces roses, teintes de sang ?

Retirez-vous : rentrez dans les sombres abîmes...
Ah ! que me montrez-vous ?... quels sont ces trois tombeaux ?
Quel est ce char affreux, surchargé de victimes ?
Quels sont ces meurtriers, couverts d'impurs lambeaux ?
J'entends des chants de mort, j'entends des cris de fête.
Cachez-moi le char qui s'arrête !...
Un fer lentement tombe à mes regards troublés ; -
J'ai vu couler du sang... Est-il bien vrai, parlez,
Qu'il ait rejailli sur ma tête ?

Venez-vous dans mon âme éveiller le remord ?
Ce sang... je n'en suis point coupable !
Fuyez, vierges ; fuyez, famille déplorable :
Lorsque vous n'étiez plus, je n'étais pas encor.
Qu'exigez-vous de moi ? J'ai pleuré vos misères ;
Dois-je donc expier les crimes de mes pères ?
Pourquoi troublez-vous mon repos ?
Pourquoi m'apportez-vous ma lyre frémissante ?
Et des remords à vos bourreaux ?

II.

Sous les murs entourés de cohortes sanglantes,
Siège le sombre tribunal.
L'accusateur se lève, et ses lèvres tremblante
S'agitent d'un rire infernal.
C'est Tainville : on le voit, au nom de la patrie,
Convier aux forfaits cette horde flétrie
D'assassins, juges à leur tour ;
Le besoin du sang le tourmente ;
Et sa voix homicide à la hache fumante
Désigne les têtes du jour.

Il parle : ses licteurs vers l'enceinte fatale
Traînent les malheureux que sa fureur signale ;
Les portes devant eux s'ouvrent avec fracas ;
Et trois vierges, de grâce et de pudeur parées,
De leurs compagnes entourées,
Paraissent parmi les soldats.
Le peuple, qui se tait, frémit de son silence ;
Il plaint son esclavage en plaignant leurs malheurs,
Et repose sur l'innocence
Ses regards las du crime et troublés par ses pleurs.

Eh quoi ! quand ces beautés, lâchement accusées,
Vers ces juges de mort s'avançaient dans les fers,
Ces murs n'ont pas, croulant sous leurs voûtes brisées,
Rendu les monstres aux enfers !
Que faisaient nos guerriers ?... Leur vaillance trompée
Prêtait au vil couteau le secours de l'épée ;
Ils sauvaient ces bourreaux qui souillaient leurs combats.
Hélas ! un même jour, jour d'opprobre et de gloire,
Voyait Moreau monter au char de la victoire.
Et son père au char du trépas !

Quand nos chefs, entourés des armes étrangères,
Couvrant nos cyprès de lauriers,
Vers Paris lentement reportaient leurs bannières,
Frédéric sur Verdun dirigeait ses guerriers.
Verdun, premier rempart de la France opprimée,
D'un roi libérateur crut saluer l'armée.
En vain tonnaient d'horribles lois ;
Verdun se revêtit de sa robe de fête,
Et, libre de ses fers, vint offrir sa conquête
Au monarque vengeur des rois.

Alors, vierges, vos mains (ce fut là votre crime !)
Des festons de la joie ornèrent les vainqueurs.
Ah ! pareilles à la victime,
La hache à vos regards se cachait sous des fleurs.
Ce n'est pas tout ; hélas ! sans chercher la vengeance,
Quand nos bannis, bravant la mort et l'indigence,
Combattaient nos tyrans encor mal affermis,
Vos nobles cœurs ont plaint de si nobles misères ;
Votre or a secouru ceux qui furent nos frères
Et n'étaient pas nos ennemis.

Quoi ! ce trait glorieux, qui trahit leur belle âme,
Sera donc l'arrêt de leur mort !
Mais non, l'accusateur, que leur aspect enflamme,
Tressaille d'un honteux transport.
Il veut, vierges, au prix d'un affreux sacrifice,
En taisant vos bienfaits, vous ravir au supplice ;
Il croit vos chastes cœurs par la crainte abattus.
Du mépris qui le couvre acceptez le partage,
Souillez-vous d'un forfait, l'infâme aréopage
Vous absoudra de vos vertus.

Répondez-moi, vierges timides ;
Qui, d'un si noble orgueil arma ces yeux si doux ?
Dites, qui fit rouler dans vos regards humides
Les pleurs généreux du courroux ?
Je le vois à votre courage :
Quand l'oppresseur qui vous outrage
N'eût pas offert la honte en offrant son bienfait,
Coupables de pitié pour des français fidèles,
Vous n'auriez pas voulu, devant des lois cruelles,
Nier un si noble forfait !

C'en est donc fait ; déjà sous la lugubre enceinte
A retenti l'arrêt dicté par la fureur.
Dans un muet murmure, étouffé par la crainte,
Le peuple, qui l'écoute, exhale son horreur.
Regagnez des cachots les sinistres demeures,
O vierges ! encor quelques heures...
Ah ! priez sans effroi, votre âme est sans remord.
Coupez ces longues chevelures,
Où la main d'une mère enlaçait des fleurs pures,
Sans voir qu'elle y mêlait les pavots de la mort !

Bientôt ces fleurs encor pareront votre tête ;
Les anges vous rendront ces symboles touchants ;
Votre hymne de trépas sera l'hymne de fête
Que les vierges du ciel rediront dans leurs chants.
Vous verrez près de vous, dans ces chœurs d'innocence,
Charlotte, autre Judith, qui vous vengea d'avance ;
Cazotte ; Elisabeth, si malheureuse en vain ;
Et Sombreuil, qui trahit par ses pâleurs soudaines
Le sang glacé des morts circulant dans ses veines ;
Martyres, dont l'encens plaît au Martyr divin !

III.

Ici, devant mes yeux erraient des lueurs sombres ;
Des visions troublaient mes sens épouvantés ;
Les spectres sur mon front balançaient dans les ombres
De longs linceuls ensanglantés.
Les trois tombeaux, le char, les échafauds funèbres,
M'apparurent dans les ténèbres ;
Tout rentra dans la nuit des siècles révolus ;
Les vierges avaient fui vers la naissante aurore ;
Je me retrouvai seul, et je pleurais encor
Quand ma lyre ne chantait plus !

Octobre 1818.

Brew tragedy tea
and drink without
tasting it.
Keep checking the meaning of
'forever',
in case it's been redefined
in less absolute terms.
Shiver through the heatwave and watch
the colour bleed out of the summer.
Dig a hole that won't be deep enough.
Shower off the crazy sweat and grave dirt
and pretend like maybe
you'll do the dishes.
Rupture your inner workings
as you scream at the universe
for ******* up so badly.
Lapse into the cold, sterile embrace
of catatonia, grateful
to feel nothing for a while.
Cry so long and so hard you forget
why you're crying,
then remember and cry
longer and harder.
Try brokering a deal with fate's
Appeals Department: offer
your organs, your eyesight,
however many years off your life,
to get him back.
Search for meaning and find none.
Rage against the perversity of it all.
Howl that death shouldn't feel derivative.
Remind yourself that this
isn't just a sick joke.
Hate Elisabeth Kübler-Ross for being right
and yourself for being so generically human.
Realise how little
knowing helps.
Reacquaint yourself with anhedonia.
Try not to hate the blue sky
or the birds who have returned
to sing in his back garden.

250 squats is more than 250 steps... as i said before, with god dead the dietician is deemed respectable as topic of every conversation.

raffaello baldini
                      dante alighieri
umberto fiori                          franco buffoni
                          milo de angelis,
                                    none sing
a *ciao bella! not one;
                          bleaching is the process
of cultural invigoration residing with only
one ***** donation; oh hell, raise one
up yourself - i can't be bothered,
i just ate a pâté & meat with fat sandwich,
am i to hit the treadmill? i don't think so...
but i know you are;
i was never going to be a Japanese tourist,
i.e. a pensioner.

otherwise in England: mind the personal space,
mind the personal space... don't touch me! don't touch me!
mind the personal space... you're not the narrator,
don't enter my personal space! don't touch me!
Jane Austen neurosis... mind the personal space...
don't dare touch me!
fine... fine fine fine, the rolling hills of Yorkshire
and ******* was inspiration for
Herr Roach Hair in Ashtray -
the countryside girls became such a bore
when they entered urban environments,
all the adventures prior became one hour engagements
in terms of *******... the adventures
of homily... make a nag nag nag blah remark...
a n'ah n'ah n'ah nagging gesture...
queen's wave... whatever that means,
Elisabeth the Second
became disgruntled at having
the clock and bridge named after her
but no Shakespeare to parallel her reign,
only the dumbing down to mind, hookah hooray!
Charlie's waiting to tie the knots for his Lawrence
escapades into Arabia.

Named Elisabeth my angel child
My flower that didn't bloom
The stars took you before
I had the chance to hold you
Please forgive me i didn't know
I had no choice but let you go
My morning star
My misty blue
Cant say goodbye
I miss you

Chapter **
Decalogue

In the absence of Vernarth's transitory, Sardinia was still burning with lilting water. Already rejoining the plasma from which he saw him depart, he continued in the liturgy with monophonic ideologies, characteristic of trance as an element of his regressive parapsychological transfiguration. Already divided into various personalities and entities, he could have almost been instructed to leave for Piacenza and join Raeder and Petrobus to set sail for the Dodecanese to expand his duties with Saint John the Evangelist. He meets with Etréstles and the participating comrades that when he arrived at the refuge in the morning, everyone was asleep, except Etréstles who was starching some sheets of bread dough for breakfast. Meanwhile, he had sacred fire heating with sacred water for everyone. Vernarth approaches and Khaire tells him, he answers, a joy to see you.

Vernarth says: Beloved Brother Etrétles, I have already taken the notations to begin the decalogue. Today in the afternoon we will board the Sailboat and leave for Piacenza. We are in the final offering. In the Izanna tower, I called upon the powers of the Universe to present them, and I was commissioned to make notations of the Decalogue of the souls that Live in all the ages of time and its vicissitudes.

Everyone starts to wake up, look at him and say hello. They sit in a circle to enjoy breakfast. Meanwhile, outside the shelter, the horns felt moving to the rhythm of the minutes. In such a way, that the last sound of the Doric scale that the storm segregates, will provide the beginnings of each one of boarding the float that will take them to the pier of Cala Cogone. Everyone says goodbye and hugs each other, Vernarth and his brother says Khaire.

Decalogue I                  
Hanael
                                      ­      
Generosity transformed into a crowd. Many stones co-exist emanating the sweet energy of Hanael, and among these is the Onix, known as the stone of truth. Whose objectivism was dreamed of the Value of generosity in its maximum expression in the courage centered on the very vibration flower of the Gerbera, along with its sober goats of the reign of the heights? Hyperkinetic foot and ascension to spiritual psychic growth, which is the real emblem and symbolism of all the virtues of all the planes, the history not traced, or the memory that is mentioned.

Two unicorns alone will be reached by the ****** who will numb them with the perfume of her purity and her chastity, the reason why she will be related to the ****** Mary and the incarnation of her son Jesus by hugging them with her cloak. The Unicorn's single horn is an emblem of the spiritual arrow, divine revelation, the entrance of the supernatural into man, the sword of God, the opening of the third eye, whose vision is projected towards the ends of the angelic world. Hail Regina Sine Labe Originali Spectam.

Decalogue II
Saint Gabriel

Vernarth you tied to a tree with canvases draws himself to the Angel in his name meaning "God is my strength". According to the Abrahamic religions and Judaism. As a result, she became known as "the messenger". Angel Gabriel continues to have a role in the world, helping both parents and human messengers. Blowing the trumpet to announce the return of the lord to Earth.

In his mediumship, the Archangel Gabriel inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. From which this egregious Vernarth Travel Wheel is not exempt until it is consecrated in Patmos as a sacred and lay reference of a spiritual being in gestation. From here he will cultivate the dignity and the Abrahamic mothers so that they can accept their body, awakening in the souls the scriptural power and communicating vigorous forces, which facilitate overcoming fear and lack of decision in life. Sponsoring God's messages to those who worship him.

Vernarth violates the Xiphos sword's decree to shed blood, but rather to purify the gesture of shedding Faith that cuts hopelessness. United in the Templars gripped by their fellow men of the spiritual warfare that never loses, that is always ready to the limit.


Decalogue III
Two premises

From the first two decalogues, the third is born. Both by the glow of the first reactivates the other, which is a rectilinear light that surprises the dark light that tries to invade its luminosity. At very meager kilowatts, the years that separate the times of adding more vestiges of transcending on moral exercise unfold from intertwining; in such a way that in periods of frank over-excited navigation, the energy of the spirit is advanced, only measurable by the actions and intercommunications of the Angels and Archangels.
"Decalogues / ten analyzes" Assimilations of divine inspiration, which will contain ten components beyond an enumeration of premises that expose the visions when justifying a test. This decalogue includes maxims such as "The Angel is the fundamental value of Mystical Perseverance."


Decalogue IV
Where is the North

The North: Biblical scholars have suggested that the north symbolizes the permanent or the eternal, perhaps because the pole stars could be seen throughout the year. It is the place of God's heavenly habitation (Isa. 14:13) and from where his glory descends (Job 37:22) to bless or judge (Eze. 1: 4). He is the true King of the North. But the north, represented by the left hand, is also a symbol of disaster. The enemy of God's people came from the north (Jer. 1:14, 15; Eze. 38: 6), bringing destruction. In a sense, the enemy was the false king of the north who tried to usurp the role of God and who is ultimately destroyed by the Lord (Sof. 2:12; Dan. 11: 21-45). To see resting in Faith, the north does not distract your gaze, it blesses resting the whole concept that shakes the predisposition to arise to all merit given by physical unity, which I inhabit where I will rest, and the glory has to exalt me. Whoever comes from the north bringing destruction, will crash upon him, bringing reparation for the faith that rebuilds itself. The north is an anti-magnet, preventing what it cannot distort from itself in the Christian saying.


Decalogue V
The desert

Vernarth has to consume the desert like a placid arid and inhospitable place when swallowing it. There is nothing in his hands, not even the most elementary thing found. Where you suffer all kinds of discomforts: thirst and heat, inclement weather, sudden changes in temperature, sand discomfort, deprivation, and material deprivation; not only of the futile things but also of the most necessary. It must be supplied in large baskets to serve those who cultivate and protect it. The desert is a meek sheep in periods of drought when it never leaves you.

The physical reality of the desert can be like a symbol of the imminent spiritual life: it is the place of the detachment of everything superfluous; an invitation to austerity and a return to the essential. It is there where man experiences his fragility and his own limitations; the place of trial and purification. But also the most appropriate setting for a renewed and mature search for our personal encounter with God in prayer, in the silence of the soul, and in the simplicity of the essential. It is here that every symbol, more than all its significance, is transformed into a test of loneliness beyond all abundance of Faith, without even having to support it.


Decalogue VI
Vampirism

In the behavior of the person who acts like a vampire, that society prevails that the behavior is dissociated to whoever does it and not. Many vampire souls have made a pilgrimage for good. No one has been able to exclude them from the darkness and stop rising from the dead to roam the night in a bulky black cape and use long, sharp canine teeth to bite the victims' necks and **** their blood. But modern vampires tend to encounter problems of strict uniqueness such as not being happy, believing even more than by dying to them they are more than a fatal vampire. "We are all Vampires in eternity who deal with darkness and light, fear and courage."
Vampire in Sardinia is drinking the same blood and sprinkling it on the earth that nothing conceals or prescribes sin. Then a child appears, picks up the flower that germinates right there, and the cycle begins again.

“When I train myself in writing saying who I am, I only receive from the purulence of the multitudes, in centuries by centuries, not finding a basis to answer me. They say they do not know what to answer because there is no content that compares to those who have no Age, Life, or compassion. That I only have to communicate with the Strigoi messenger articulated with the souls of the dead who come out of their graves at night to terrorize the neighborhood. That it is the same as I condemned to sail and swarm the World of the Nosferatu aristocracy, a survivor of all human vanity, in all the empires of the World believing to live thousands of years without knowing who helped me, because few give me the option of giving what good of me ”


Decalogue VII
Holy incense

I breathe humid air from the superior deities; they opt for my forehead, as practices that replace those that are detonating to expel theirs. Rain of aromas alter or renew low-voltage emotions for high gods, like the Egyptians who used the most precious varieties of incense. These incense craftsmen, in the times of the Pharaohs, knew all the secrets for making high-quality incense. It has been verified that in some of the precious vessels found in the funeral chambers of Tutankhamun, they kept hundreds of kinds of incense that have still retained their magnificent aroma through the centuries. On Sheesham's bunk beds of fire. Wood and Incense with ultra sensory olfactory powers, to design elemental and supernatural hearts, to house and be adaptable to hyper-connectivity. In the Hindu religion, akasha is the foundation and essence of all things in the material world; the first palpable and concrete material element created by the god Brahmá (air, fire, water, earth are the others). "Here he sleeps without waking up when the morning doesn't wake up, and sleeps when the night doesn't get dark"


Decalogue VIII
Mythology

As mythology, it is called the set of myths typical of a people or culture. Myths, for their part, are narrations starring gods, heroes, or fantastic beings, who explain or give meaning to certain events or phenomena. The word, as such, and this in turn from the Greek μυθολογία (mythology) . Mythology, in this sense, is made up of the set of stories and beliefs, relatively cohesive, with which a people has traditionally explained itself. its origin and the reason for being of everything around it. Hence, we can affirm that mythology shapes the worldview or belief system of a culture. Vernarth from Sardinia where he never thought he was undoubtedly opens up belonging to this place more than the hundred millionth essence of his Being. It unites all the elements that melt together the liquid, aqueous, physical, gaseous, and aqueous., To form the mythology of a true verb of a parapsychological regression, like a great condiment that every mortal lacks as opposed to an immortal.
Alikantus paradigm of Alikanto on his astral journey just three days after climbing in Gaugamela...! The corners of anxiety buzz after lightening their igneous hooves by the slippery stones of the footsteps that seemed to be the same projections of their tasks that marked the Tracian soil before arriving at the request of their harangue. He resorts to Medea, before arriving in Thrace after wandering around different places in search of protection and advice to protect his master Vernarth. While He was submitting to his last opioid libations of vivid liliaceous from angiosperms encapsulated by his right pectoral. That was Alikanto's missive. Ask Medea for a potion so that she can supply her master to deflate his breastplate, and thus be able to use his Panoply breastplate in combat since there were three days left for the duel. Medea arrived in the city of Athens on a stormy day with great dark Dantesque gray on the palm of the cliff, previously escaping near the Abdera cliff, whose east was evacuating black poetry,.


Decalogue XIX
Falangist

As a tactical organization for war created in Ancient Greece and later imitated by various Mediterranean civilizations. ... The term is of Greek origin, φάλαγξ (phálanx), which was used for the defensive formation used by the Hoplites, who constituted the classical phalanx.
Almost at dusk over Zeus's beards, the Vernarth Phalanges begin to arrive. The Macedonian Phalanx or Macedonian Phalanx was an infantry formation created and used by Philip II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The Macedonian phalanx arose, in fact, as a response to the tactical modifications that the Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of ground forces, developed in the early 4th century BC. C. to oppose the superiority, although already decadent, that the Spartan hoplite formation had exerted in the land combats between the Greek cops until that date.
Nothing depresses me more than not delegating others as if they were my Falangists, making them participate in defending themselves against all disadvantages and worse punishment with the Panoply armor, a superb protector of those who has no defender. "God is my Breastplate, his Gospel protects me by never being damaged"


Decalogue X
Lepanto

Where I have to shelter, says Vernarth, hostility haunts me. Beautiful landscape that is swayed between the rushes of good that tries to be less bad. Policy judgments, how close to marketing peace, and so far from founding true poetry. Still, Vernarth crossed the waters and their customs. From Lepanto, Greece. He appeared exhausted with his eyes reddened by the gassed atmosphere that greeted them in Battle. Of whose intraterrestrial castes it was the one that was in his iron spirit and reappeared in his cape as a gesture of his personality. He arrived cracking the ****** floors of Tel Gomel when he arrived ... he was assaulted by a soldier who asked for mercy to extend his bad fortune. Lepanto is a pre-military senatorial seat, and a great preparatory to the charms of the drama of my duties that will be in Patmos, never-ending dramas.

Falangist: With his helmet in his hands and the Dorus on his cloak on the ground tells him; every single thing I tried the double edge of my sword stained him. The top sheet notified me that my family in Kalidona was in a state of irregularity since my two older children were called to serve in the militias. And the second edge of my lower Dorus I bow before the meanest preciousness of that of observing with a good spirit to cooperate, now with the callousness of my soul that overcomes it exploiting and dragging my wife as easy spoil. I know that my descendants were buried under the effect of the cataclysm of Pompeii in the future. All will emigrate and then flee when they are devastated and the unwelcome comrades return to reintegrate into the Santa María festival. The Patron Saint who consoled me, but prepared me for the resistance of such bad fortune, that one day she would let herself fall with my crops in the culture of peasant angels in fruits and devotions. I sobbed and sobbed rubbing my animals through my empty eyes day and night. They did it next to me, with the singularity of not affecting me; they went to the nearest stream to sob for me so that I would not be affected by the fatal annihilation.

Epilogue
Patmos and Saint Gabriel

Once installed with the vision of visionary brotherhood that characterizes its filial union with Reader and Petrobus. It will begin in its mediumship with the Archangel Gabriel who inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. As an input of character to validation the function of the Troubadour, Juggler, or Visionary. If it were not for the written and not musical notes, nothing would be more than a vision of being closer to almost hyper-reality, established by the prophecies as historical and religious support. With this last decalogue, Vernarth establishes that one in the work of oneself remains the summary of the prototype of the work. And from the work, the summary that allows the common man to be erected, who in his free will, does not deny, but rather power his unshakable satiety of science in his prostrated soul, under the key of dogma and questioning?
Hildegard Von Bingen has sparked the interest of many scholars, mainly because it seems to contain a major contradiction with respect to the rest of his statements about his visionary experience. In that absence of ecstasy that characterizes the visionary experience of Hildegard von Bingen, It also figures the fundamental difference that separates it from its contemporary Elisabeth von Schönau, and some scholars based this fact to deny it a mystical character and grant it the attribute of prophetic. The attention of this specific passage obeys its comparison with Saint John the Evangelist. The understanding of itself seeks a model, a referent, whose wide field of meaning has to be reconstructed in order to restore the full meaning of this statement. The analysis will stop at the following aspects:

1. In the gesture through which Saint John is shown, and by which Hildegard associates herself with the evangelist and, as we will see, according to the identifications of the time, with the beloved disciple of Christ and with John of Patmos, the author. of the apocalypse.

2. Hildegard's identification with Juan de Patmos will lead us to a comparison of both visionaries focused on the modes of their representation.

3. Finally, the content of the images will be reflected on from an example, hoping that all of this will be concluded with a sharper profile of Hildegard von Bingen's visionary experience.
Vernarth says: “I wander from the stony ruins in Sardinia, to go in search of those who gave rise to themselves. When I thought about believing to create them, they presented themselves to me as a whole that prophesies Creation. ”

take one look, on the spare eye
of "nietzcshe's" the will to power,
you'll spot something unusual...

man's logic is linear,
woman's logic is circular,
a woman will cite you
a thousand emblems of truth
bound to a circle,
but a man will only cite a hundred
digits of truth bound to a metre,
there are hardly any negations
in woman's truth,
there are many negations
(kantian mirror, symbolic
of the zero symbol) i man's
utterance of truth...
at first glance one prickly thorn
stood out, the will to power's
author s elisabeth nietzsche, not
frederick... there's this lack of
linear authority, there's this
almost kantian in-itself enclosure,
while a man says: i'm only here
only once... a woman retorts (paradoxically):
there's plenty more these where it came from...
the most scandalous book ever written
that was ascribed to a ménage à trois thinker
was this diabolically babylonian mongrel
of nueva germania's failure...
which is why kant demanded the noumenon
to be of a given ***, a woman, he never married,
he lived to a clockwork precision,
he learned that the unfathomable
was the cyclic, and within this framework
he supposedly died an idiot fathoming
the linear ontology by disregarding the cyclic
ontology of women, with a humoristic
expression concerning the french revolution,
quote: *that's a revolution; so unbecoming
of a german, that it could almost pass-off as
english black humour.
a man competent with his linear activity
will only be deemed maddened when cursed
to a cycling exception of a certain inability
to pursue the linear ontology to the fullest release
of meaning, instead, the linear will prevail,
although like a trans-linear object stranded
chained to the clutch exerting force on an otherwise
speeding wheel, in revs, tattooing the cement
with rubber tattoo skids and heated convulsions,
nonetheless, leaving a mark, however
abrupt it might be, nonetheless linear.

It's gym class
Laughter fills the space
Test Artistic Gymnastics today
The long ocean blue mat
Streched across the floor
Either you got it or you don't

Elisabeth, the clumsiest
Sweetest girl I know
Bright and kind
Easy to influence
A little shy...
Mischief is my middle name

She runs towards the middle
I wait and analyse
Her slender body arches forward
A moment before her hands
Touch the ocean blue mat
Preparing to place her weight on them...

"WATER!!!"
Distracted she loses balance
Now laying flat on the ground
She screams at me
I laugh and run off
Persued by a D-

Elisabeth lives as more than dust
She lies in Rachel's ribs
through sharpie ink
and in the sky when it turns salmon pink
behind crosses and hills
nothing has ended
she is still strung through trees
and her soul is fused to yours clean
numb will consume us
and ill brush the knots from your hair when there is nothing else to say
death is one way to find out who will stay
and who will go cry themselves to sleep because they cant see beyond themselves

guitar strings vibrate in bars
and we search for signs of where you are