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Chris D Aechtner Nov 2021
Sun Tzu realized that razing an enemy to the ground can lead to long-term negative results for Empire, especially depending on that which fills the vacuum left behind. That can be observed in contemporary times with ISIS having filled the vacuum left behind in Iraq and Syria.

When showing too much presence in outlying territory that had been left alone as a neutral buffer between two opposing Dynasties, that can prompt the other to become nervous enough to attempt to mitigate an issue that it regards as a possible growing threat.

Also, regardless of location, imposing too much open hostility upon an enemy can eventually lead to the enemy becoming emboldened enough to rebel against the openly oppressive Empire. When imposing overt tyranny upon an outlying territory in what might appear as an immediately successful operation, that can lead to using too many resources to maintain that position in that way. The potential of troops can be lost when stationed as a permanent standing army in an area located far away from applicable future need; that holds true regardless of available technological advancements in transportation—from defended shipping canals and heavy calvary, to cargo planes and aircraft carriers.

Those are a few examples of possible problematic logistics when attempting to assimilate an enemy.

Within his diabolical brilliance, Sun Tzu expanded one of the main prongs in the “Three Pronged Approach”, injected the heavy metals of dark arts psychology into something that already had a foundation of psychology: Enforce will upon the enemy without the enemy realizing it, to the point that the enemy will help you to accomplish goals against itself, relishing in the effort with a sense of duty.  Subsequent experimentation led to permanently changing the face of warfare overall. Ever since, successful (subjective, depends on perspective) Empire, empires, nations, governments, and corporations use the tactic.

The Trident-Tongue of Perpetual Psychological Cultural Warfare:

The Target: Village surrounded with forest: society: a clearing in the woods:

Infiltrate the village as a messenger who bears warning of a powerful, dangerous enemy making its way towards the outlying territory where the target village is located. Sow fear. When enough villagers are afraid, offer protection against the “common enemy”. That protection is 1/10 of the resources necessary for an open, direct enforcement of will. Explain that the cure, the guardians, require lodging, food, and other basic needs as small payment for services rendered. Use mindgames on reluctant villagers.

When the village agrees, and your presence becomes common place—"normalized”—begin to plant ideas in the villagers, and that includes sowing doubt on your presence. The villagers begin to divide themselves into opposing groups against each other. One group believes that there isn't an approaching enemy, another group calls that group selfish, as going against the betterment of the whole. Another group suddenly believes that it isn't good to eat something that their ancestors had eaten for centuries. In the ensuing chaos, poison some of the village children. There are many fairy tales that include broken families, lost children, and attempts made to poison and eat children. Poisoning/destroying eggs in nests is a way to cull goose populations.

Once the enemy villagers are too broken to properly run the village, announce that the invading force has been spotted in a nearby valley, and that the villagers need to hide in the forest surrounding the village. There are bamboo enclosures waiting in the forest. Explain that the enclosures will offer defense to the villagers. After the villagers enter the enclosures, lock the villagers in the enclosures, and begin to ridicule the villagers for having fallen for the trap. Mock the villagers, spit on the villagers, laugh at the villagers. Remove pre-selected villagers from the bamboo enclosures, **** and ****** the targets in front of their caged families and friends. Have another group that consists of individuals sporting insignia, weapons, and armour that differ from the first group, pretend to scare off the first group. Release the villagers from their enclosures. Explain to the villagers that their former captors lied over there being an encroaching invading force in order to trick the villagers into the enclosures, and that you are willing to protect them against their former captors. Overjoyed, without being prompted to do so, the villagers offer much more payment than before for services rendered, so much so, that you 'sell' their own products back to them.

The villagers believe that their gods sent Sun Tzu's death knights in shining armour to them in an act of divine deliverance.
The villagers mindlessly follow and parrot every command and slogan issued forth from their supposed protectors.
The villagers don't remember village life prior to having been enslaved by their divine shepherds. The stages of demoralization, dehumanization, destabilization, crisis, crisis mitigation, and normalization have been completed. The villagers have burned the bowls in their skulls, are empty jugheads to fill with idea-petals of poverty, subservience, sickness, and death.

1/10 the amount of usual resources were used to secure the area in a sustainable manner. There weren't valuable troops lost in battle. Weapons and armour didn't need to be mended and retooled. Empire doesn't need to worry over revolt from the villagers, and the village works for Empire. When there is need to retool or replace weapons and armour, the village blacksmith does so in the belief that he is helping to protect the village against a common enemy.

The enemy villagers are injected with a new passion for a while, but break again under the strain of hyper-conflict that perpetual psychological cultural warfare causes in an infected individual. Use the good cop/bad cop psychology (the template and blueprint for contemporary politics and political systems) in various ways until Empire inevitably begins to devour itself. When Empire devours itself, the outlying provinces are the first to go as Empire implodes to protect its core. At that point, Big Brother had been selling the village's goods to caravans to spread the goods throughout neighbouring provinces. The wealthier that Empire becomes, the more that the consistently poorer target villagers offer to Empire: A tell-tale sign of an incoming Great Reset uncoiling from off the horizon, slithering down into valley basins filled with current moments.

Gaslight the villagers, blame and shame them for everything, squeeze them to their last guilt-drop before setting the villagers ablaze.


One of the Great Deceptions within the Grand Illusion is the delusion that there is constant need of the worker. A worker is useful in various ways in different seasons of bloom and wither. Within universal change, there are constants: The peasant doesn't bow to the King without bowing to the Queen before being ground into grain for winter stores, just as the worker honeybee drones are cast from the hive during winter—relish their death with a sense of duty fulfilled on the frost as snowflakes kiss their wings.

The broken villagers are useless to Empire, husks of their former selves. In the scenario of a neighbouring Dynasty approaching to feed in death knell, lock the villagers in their homes, and set them ablaze as decoy-beacons in the valley for the encroaching Dynasty.

The burning village is located in a bowl of ash surrounded in a steep, jagged-toothed mountain range. As the enemy Dynasty descends into the valley, you head westerly towards the third largest bastion in Empire's outer rings of defense.


Sun Tzu didn't come up with the concept on his own:

He retooled a trident that he found leaning against a scorched bamboo enclosure located in a long-forgotten forest.

                                                        ­     11 12 2021
I understand that it isn't a poem.
RH 78 Jan 2015
Box fresh protectors.
How can 2 items take such a pounding day in day out?
My feet are safe in their leather enclosures.
Bound up like 2 Egyptian mummies.
Brycical Nov 2014
Sing songs of parsley vivacious ***** jazz.                                    

Dance that moon hoodoo rattlesnake tango.

Play ancient games like enter the mysterious iridescent doorway.

Smoke your poetry books.                    

Remember to forget your cell phone in the shower drain.

Cauterize your family pictures onto magazines and newspapers.          

Sail across the ghost waters of unforgiven memories.

Throw yourself into your heartstrings.                                                    

String yourself onto your nirvana sphere.            

Lick the soul.

Burn square enclosures.          

Paint with your mind's mouth instead of the hands.                      

Live and ******.
David Adamson Jan 2019
A landscape devoid of transparent eyeballs.
When did we all become photographers?
Freeze fleeting things,
filter clouds, endless beauty a simple effect.

Funny how enclosures feel obsolete—
the graves, the houses, three-sided mornings—
when I am a share, a like,
self-simulacrum selfie.
I stand on a fascinating algorithm,
Below that it’s reposts all the way down.

Share, share a like,
share a googol of happy lives
better than yours.

Are we saying yes  
to starting off yet again,
absent this time?
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2012
To serve as a sub title I would call this antidote presented in a flowered bouquet first of flowers then
Thoughts that are found in such gifts of treasured beauty an antidote in the central theme of my life

Trying to give any and all relief from pain and suffering if nothing else it will serve as a brief distraction
As you read unfortunately we can only win small victories but anything to help just possibly it will make
A crack that will lead to understanding and more winning can occur

The gold bejeweled lives I have known they the towers the earth’s perennial flowers they were the all
Consuming hours of my life others view life conceptually one part is a stone wall that grows the figwort

With the other English Ivy Hedera the first has the notation of growing in old ruins here
Is the represented tendrils of the heart ever growing ever showing a map of feelings ether joyful or

Tragic within their sinew your strengths and weakness are displayed yes they are hidden to the natural
Eye but in quiet conversation they reveal themselves in the loveliest ways they are rhythmic waves that

Flow over those that we love instilling in them our secret otherwise unknown selves then now I would
Like to present the main body of this piece what are the first words women say when they receive

Flowers how lovely is their words for this to happen their heavenly Father stood before this blue globe
And spoke to the wayward wind my desire is to make an unquestionable quality that will be the very

Essence from where its fragrance is derived he told the wind go and do my bidding instantly the wind
Split into four parts from that time till now it is called and said gather from the four winds in obedience

To the master one part rushed down and felt the tearing of mountain peaks it screamed with delight
And pain it soothed itself by quietly passing over knolls that stood on lonely hill tops then through vales

And valleys it made progress looked across the great span of earth to see what its kindred brothers and
Sisters were finding in its drift and wonderings it noticed one was awaking the wild African world then it

Turned and whirled as it picked up the scent of Africa’s coffee fields instinctively it knew where it must
Go next to the southern tobacco fields it delighted in the pungent promise where in parlors ever so

Humble the tiny pleasurable string like smoke would lay on the air and from a great distance far from
This domestic scene it could see its fellow kiss and roll across the earth’s great rivers the Nile and its

Rectangular pyramids the burial enclosures of the pharos with reverence they silently passed to deepen
This they drove onward until they felt the sacred Ganges below they drank of the sighs of millions of

India’s people refreshed by this dearness to link themselves to the one true God they set a course that
Would take them to where in future days a Union Jack would have the notoriety that the sun never set

In far off lands without its shadow proudly waving it pointed glory folds back to the Thymes where the
British crown would nobly reign and one of its greatest achievements would be the land of free men

That it spawned so out to sea it turned to visit this kingdom not of royal crowns but the garland of
Freedom that rested on every man woman and child it was home for many waters the Mongolia the

Ohio north lay the Great lakes in its center the old Mississippi it followed it down and made its turn west
To rivers called Rio Grande the Red Brazos on to the Colorado the snake and if they could be heard

Speaking they be saying Chisim Platt fairest blue bells I know your home in these familiar dales and pick
Up the from the arid desert from dry river beds biting sand go to its roots and you would know long

Ago waters that held brimming life over the gold fields it continues and dips into the blue pacific
Washing sand an grit its next stop was turquoise waters rainbows and waterfalls it fell into the swaying

Palms coconut papaya pineapple layered it with richness it would create the fabled trade winds it turned
To view it exact opposite its brother wind that came down from the pole it knew Russia’s Siberia Alaskan

Tundra at this point it heard the Father state you have done well he drew a great breath that captured
All that was gathered in the heart of the wind then he turned to carpeted fields that stood incomplete

Flowers were as a sea but they were empty petals they were the reproductive part of flowers but they
Were barren of vividness and true deep colors but worst of all they were odorless and then God

Breathed upon them the secrets that the wind had stored from the four corners of the earth in that
Moment flowers became the true marvel and were forever established as the hallmark of romantic

Expression first picturesque layered with gratitude stillness the chill from the pole that reached down
Through the Canucks of Canada there is the splash of **** frost felt if not known the enticement of the

Soul of cool contrasted with the deserts heat cacti drenched in sunlight never to be complete always in
Rays that makes it beholden in glimmers it shimmers it touts a glory born from harshness it lingers as

Indescribable beauty burnished sands its court this is also found in the allure of flowers hidden within
Is weariness but it is the refined kind it speaks to you not of tiredness but of rest of shade and shadow

A quest is announced do you not feel a sweet breeze how else does its fragrance come within reach
You’re carried back to mountain meadows meows from baby mountain lion kittens are laced within

The story flowers release through their fragrance and truly this just one of Gods many gifts to man
And the greatest Rose of all is His Son the Rose of Sharon
Nigel Morgan May 2016
Poor stone. You’ve wrapped it, hidden its serene and uncomplicated self. I can no longer feel its smoothness, its emptiness embodied in touch. You have brought it in from the beautiful silence of its solitary state and covered it around: a net, a bag, a coverlet, a coating of thread through which we can only see something of itself.

There is a consistency here: in this doing, a reflective doing as much as conscious making. You’ve moved from the mending of damaged acorns, splintered leaves, forlorn detritus gathered off the sea strand to making tiny homes, shelters, enclosures, that sometimes have no perceivable openings; so some stones are wholly netted, completely wound and threaded around so there is no escape. But some, it needs to be said, are like the lasts of the cobbler, there to provide a form to hold the stone shoe firm, in place, and around which the woven thread in your hand can ply and knit . . . and then it is sometimes cast away, this last of stone, having only provided a stone shape; so only its shape-memory persists for the viewer. And when touched - this garment, this cloak of thread is pliable, and moves with the fingers’ touch and press.

I should like to capture this stone in the process of its enclosing; what seems to be from a viewer’s stance a not wholly planned journey with the needle - around and about, in and out and under. So I imagine a stop-motion sequence of photographs, beginning with the lonely undressed stone in your hand. As time lapses we watch the intricate play of your hand, your deft fingers, that particular pinching and holding to place the thread here and here and here, the pulling through, the special holding in place while one thread knits together with another thread by going underneath and up and along, and all the time the hand turning, the fingers dancing in the hand.

Then will come moments of rest where the stone moves from the hand to a still surface. It regains its shadow - and rests. The hand moves away and we are left with the silent stone, the journey of its dressing interrupted by life’s necessities. The maker’s hand moves to other tasks; the preparation of food, the writing of notes, the tapping of virtual symbols on the mobile phone (now there’s a surface that shares with the stone a hardness and smoothness – once we held stones for comfort in the pocket – now we stroke the mobile to remind us that we’re safe in the dark street, not ever alone, connected to our thousands of followers, admirers, friends, our loved ones, and that repository of what is and where to go, and the whole world of music and photographs - of woven stones).

Let’s go back to this stop-motion. To lift the stone from its precious private place, usually alone (no other stones around), index finger and thumb come together to lift our stone from its shadow – a shadow that disappears, magically, into the surrounding light. Oh surely no more, the stone cries in its shadowless voice. No more of this twisting turning, upside downing, the sense of the stone recalling a time beyond time when in a storm-laden sea one dark winter’s night it, and countless companions, were lifted from the sea bed and rolled round, around, round, and swept, afloat in a turmoil of waves that break and break and break until finally onto the sloping beach - where the stone is left – alone, motionless – at rest - to dry in the morning sun.

Gradually the movement in her fingers becomes slower, even sporadic. She is looking at this stone with her grey-blue eyes, intently. There are pauses; moments of reflection where our stone is set down and viewed, picked up again and moved into a different light (its shadow returns momentarily, fitfully, knowing perhaps any stasis is only temporary). The camera keeps clicking; stop, a 300th of second motion, stop for a second. Already there are thousands of images collected in the camera’s silicon memory chip.

And so movement gradually becomes stillness. The light changes. The camera’s incessant stop-motion ceases. The stone is placed on a white surface for a final photo-call – a single click. Once naked; now clothed. There is no longer the possibility of return to its original stoniness. It becomes an ‘object’ to place on a surface for wonder and admiration – not the stone of course but its clothing, its covering, its embodied shape in thread, perhaps that thread soaked in mud that in itself holds a distance memory of water, even water that has moved from sea to the coastal strip, the estuary, the river’s bank.

Later, after being wrapped in tissue paper, perhaps boxed, and moved into a total darkness, the stone is brought again into the light. It finds itself placed among other stones, stones and shells, rusty objects even, and laid out variously on a pristine white surface. Its stoniness is now shadowed with words: a description, a title, its ‘found’ location, a date of finding – a date of making. That this stone, once beached, and picked from the sand, from amongst so many other stones, and thought unique and carrying potential as a last, a shoe-maker’s frame, a steady 3-dimensional surface for wrapping, now becomes something more that a solitary stone. It has been given a new life, a life of an object imbued with the thread of a maker’s curious mind; that in so threading has come to know this stone so intimately, and with so much love and care that its clothing, whilst having no pre-formed pattern, becomes something in its maker’s eyes that seems  - meaningful, poetic, ‘right’?

Through this stone-weaving with thread, this stone-covering and describing in thread, you have made a poem of the nature of stoniness. Your fingers now know this stone, and perhaps, if we can in our imagination follow that partly accidental / partly planned journey, we can read your poem – of touch, of turning, of minute viewing, of so careful observation of every millimetre of its surface. Yes, perhaps that’s it, what this is all about . . . only our stone has had its wonderful serenity and solitariness, its smoothness and surface taken from us. It will no longer lie in the pocket to comfort the hand. It will no longer lie on the desk to be a tangible remembrance of a place and time, treasured.

                                                       ------

‘And now I remember a poem, portraying a stone, a pebble placed in a child’s hand, picked up on a pebble ridge. A pebble to place in the pocket where we finger it until it becomes warm. Its shape and certain¬ty is firm and sure. It consoles us. And, as we change and decay, it remains lodged with us: *a thing that contains nothing save the mystery of life.’
This prose poem is inspired by the stone weaving of the artist Alice Fox http://www.alicefox.co.uk
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2012
Priceless Times


To serve as a sub title I would call this antidote presented in a flowered bouquet first of flowers then
Thoughts that are found in such gifts of treasured beauty an antidote in the central theme of my life

Trying to give any and all relief from pain and suffering if nothing else it will serve as a brief distraction
As you read unfortunately we can only win small victories but anything to help just possibly it will make
A crack that will lead to understanding and more winning can occur

The gold bejeweled lives I have known they the towers the earth’s perennial flowers they were the all
Consuming hours of my life others view life conceptually one part is a stone wall that grows the figwort

With the other English Ivy Hedera the first has the notation of growing in old ruins here
Is the represented tendrils of the heart ever growing ever showing a map of feelings ether joyful or

Tragic within their sinew your strengths and weakness are displayed yes they are hidden to the natural
Eye but in quiet conversation they reveal themselves in the loveliest ways they are rhythmic waves that

Flow over those that we love instilling in them our secret otherwise unknown selves then now I would
Like to present the main body of this piece what are the first words women say when they receive

Flowers how lovely is their words for this to happen their heavenly Father stood before this blue globe
And spoke to the wayward wind my desire is to make an unquestionable quality that will be the very

Essence from where its fragrance is derived he told the wind go and do my bidding instantly the wind
Split into four parts from that time till now it is called and said gather from the four winds in obedience

To the master one part rushed down and felt the tearing of mountain peaks it screamed with delight
And pain it soothed itself by quietly passing over knolls that stood on lonely hill tops then through vales

And valleys it made progress looked across the great span of earth to see what its kindred brothers and
Sisters were finding in its drift and wonderings it noticed one was awaking the wild African world then it

Turned and whirled as it picked up the scent of Africa’s coffee fields instinctively it knew where it must
Go next to the southern tobacco fields it delighted in the pungent promise where in parlors ever so

Humble the tiny pleasurable string like smoke would lay on the air and from a great distance far from
This domestic scene it could see its fellow kiss and roll across the earth’s great rivers the Nile and its

Rectangular pyramids the burial enclosures of the pharos with reverence they silently passed to deepen
This they drove onward until they felt the sacred Ganges below they drank of the sighs of millions of

India’s people refreshed by this dearness to link themselves to the one true God they set a course that
Would take them to where in future days a Union Jack would have the notoriety that the sun never set

In far off lands without its shadow proudly waving it pointed glory folds back to the Thymes where the
British crown would nobly reign and one of its greatest achievements would be the land of free men

That it spawned so out to sea it turned to visit this kingdom not of royal crowns but the garland of
Freedom that rested on every man woman and child it was home for many waters the Mongolia the

Ohio north lay the Great lakes in its center the old Mississippi it followed it down and made its turn west
To rivers called Rio Grande the Red Brazos on to the Colorado the snake and if they could be heard

Speaking they be saying Chisim Platt fairest blue bells I know your home in these familiar dales and pick
Up the from the arid desert from dry river beds biting sand go to its roots and you would know long

Ago waters that held brimming life over the gold fields it continues and dips into the blue pacific
Washing sand an grit its next stop was turquoise waters rainbows and waterfalls it fell into the swaying

Palms coconut papaya pineapple layered it with richness it would create the fabled trade winds it turned
To view it exact opposite its brother wind that came down from the pole it knew Russia’s Siberia Alaskan

Tundra at this point it heard the Father state you have done well he drew a great breath that captured
All that was gathered in the heart of the wind then he turned to carpeted fields that stood incomplete

Flowers were as a sea but they were empty petals they were the reproductive part of flowers but they
Were barren of vividness and true deep colors but worst of all they were odorless and then God

Breathed upon them the secrets that the wind had stored from the four corners of the earth in that
Moment flowers became the true marvel and were forever established as the hallmark of romantic

Expression first picturesque layered with gratitude stillness the chill from the pole that reached down
Through the Canucks of Canada there is the splash of **** frost felt if not known the enticement of the

Soul of cool contrasted with the deserts heat cacti drenched in sunlight never to be complete always in
Rays that makes it beholden in glimmers it shimmers it touts a glory born from harshness it lingers as

Indescribable beauty burnished sands its court this is also found in the allure of flowers hidden within
Is weariness but it is the refined kind it speaks to you not of tiredness but of rest of shade and shadow

A quest is announced do you not feel a sweet breeze how else does its fragrance come within reach
You’re carried back to mountain meadows meows from baby mountain lion kittens are laced within

The story flowers release through their fragrance and truly this just one of Gods many gifts to man
And the greatest Rose of all is His Son the Rose of Sharon
Tom McCone Jan 2014
does a lion lie                                                                     do lies settle here,
beneath these sheets                                                             in these nested enclosures,
i've found myself strewn upon?                                      or corridors, from i to places
                                                                                                   never invented?
or just clusters of stars,
too distant                                                                               seven things
from wherever i found myself,                                        burnt oceans into sand;
or what breathing was,                                                         two glimmering points.
or emptiness?
                      there you were,                              a sign of rehearsal,
pulling life down, on trails hung                               or omen, or,
in perfect lines from                               just kind of nothing
each &every; spark in the sky                                         at
                                                                                 all.
nine. sharp.
am i
always just
this unmotivated?


do i truly perceive
the embedding nothingness                                                      does this get
from life, or just in dream still?                                                          any easier?

    
                                                                                                         i'd rather find
                                                                                                               myself at
                                                                                          the bottom of the ocean,
                                                                    some
                                                                             days,
                                                                      i guess.                                   sorry.
"i had a dream you picked up your feet and walked on over to me
i had a dream i finished those songs i gave up on
it doesn’t seem fair to be alone in the spring air
but i added the numbers from those long ****** up summers and i found myself there
with you.."
The ****** Lost
The ****** of Soul – does it work
Like Nakedness of Flesh in flashing World?
This shameless question worthy is of Talk
For Answers are so ravaging and bold.

Disclose Enclosures, Cloths unwrap,
Partaking Tastes so openly dare:
The ****** of Flesh – a mighty step
To Nakedness of Soul, a potent Pair!..

All Visual is hidden – take a look
And blindness of the sight by Darkness washes:
******* flow running like a brook,
It starts when Star falls down like a brooch.

The covers follow it like Mysteries, –  
Their Names are ridiculed, Oblivion-like:
Be longer, Milky Way of naked Bliss –
Be burst of Lightning, you, releasing Strike!..

In Mirrors Naked ****** reflects,
In Revelations Nakedness get ****,
And let the envy Ignorance neglect,
And let the jealous Ugliness be rude, –

The Flesh of Soul seduces Soul of Flesh
To let them live in Triumph of the Worth:
It gives the World initiating Flash
The shame of which for so long is lost!..
K Balachandran Mar 2015
Blood, now boils quick, it's intense, he is in fire,
on her every touch, there is a special anesthetic
a poisonous binge, causes tidal waves go berserk
in his stream of blood,tangible effects of arousal results,

body now is a vast field,  goosebumps sprout like spotted
magic mushrooms after a night long rain and thunderclaps,
the salacious intent of the scent of woman,wafts,
singing pheromones perfectly rhyme with *** center
of the brain, "Ï am addicted to tarantula's love"
his whisper sounds ominous, tarantula casts her net

Serpentine vines tangle on wild trees,in natural history
museum premises,trees fall down and rise, create leaf beds
dark enclosures where lovers escape the detection of radars,
explore,the unbridled ascent of carnal wishes,as if a permit
is ingrained in the scent of exotic orchids wafting in the wind,
allowing the wild run of instincts, a dam burst, here cobras prowl,
tarantulas, at a quick look are exposed ******* with dark *******,
on eight legs the desire stands,waiting for the next ***** lover,

She was watching an insatiable pair of tarantulas in elaborate
mating rituals,they move inside, cracks and burrows,concealed
by the cover of darkness,they come out,to eat the night flowers,
exhaling ****** hunger; their dark, devious fingers, touching, caressing
finding each other's intimate  parts has a dark frenzy...
he saw the blue glimmer of a concealed weapon,smeared on by amour,
as they tumble in bed,she flashes her most venomous smile,
like the quick move of the sharp end of a bodkin,
Tarantula's love affair,when it all are over, her lover's end comes near.
They leave Jerusalem, with the acrobats from Shiraz. They were ghosts of poetry, wine, roses and fireflies; they were conjuring the path of the twelve camels to the intersection with the Cenotaph, where King David with the Cherubs of Kafersesuh will stay. They were Epi ghosts, basking in camelid footsteps. They went in all the intermittences of the bent nails and plants of the areas of the marquee of the other four ghosts that accompanied him. They were the jumpers with water wheels, wheel scales with tutelary cords, some with stilts of gold disgrace from the coins of Judas Iscariot and the last propelled by a caper that ruled all the others on the wings of the Fireflies. Withdrawn from the road that leads to the Kidron valley, 2,500 years of clay tablets from Persepolis fall on all of them, they were phonetized with the plaintive nightmare of Tirazis's one-eyed poem; which is currently Shiraz, in this way these ghosts escorted the Hexagonal Birthright, they were exiled from their ghostly cities for not paying the tribute of obedience to destroy and rebuild. As they began to be with them in the cove, the ghosts of the acrobats boiled with the eagerness to prevent everyone from being saddened by the departure from the orchard, which was falling further and further behind their footsteps, dancing with their pirouettes along the way, they told little stories. in the ears of travelers.

Hydro Saltimabanqui: “I come from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), an underground canal that carries spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here I have to mend the propellers and water ropes to do my acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When we bite our tongues, we repair it with Hafiz's verses from the Koran; there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with my wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monteblanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan trembling with uncertain doubts on its way to Jaffa. "

Saltimbanqui of Bacule: "We are Epi ghosts, the reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almería of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Here we look; from here we will board the barge that will take them from back to Limassol. Curiously, the same ship from Lepanto that sleeps in the swings of the sea and in the arms of Anaximander, in a new awakening from the lethargy of the super-string theorization, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, since this is not just to research purely empirical. "

Says Anaximander: “First…, we have no proof that string theory is not ultimately correct and in the future in any verifiable way. Second, we propose a project of the order of string theory, which is necessary for science and its importance, going even beyond the scientific to also project itself on the metaphysical and the religious, right here in this order of greater what to do together with the rope that leads me to Patmos.

Saltimabanqui of Bascule responds: “metaphysical and religious legitimacy, here we are tying knots in the rope that inaugurates a new masonry in the observable futuristic look. Here is the original fiction of continuing to raise the necks of the ants over our optics. We will jump on these ropes, but we will fall on intervals of placental physical dens, which were born from the new embryo in the twelve caves of Gethsemane, in a primitive late germinal process. The micro phonetic vibrations will lift us up from the hunger to follow and leave King David in his cenotaph, gored on his hips by the Cherubim, marking his holy antlers that become entangled in the blunting of the cuneiform scratches of his epigram.

In the middle of the magical theorists exotically as associativity of substance causally of the poetic and multiverse song, believing in the ghosts of Shiraz, as dreams injected to sublimate the Aeneids that they lamented on the bottom stones, even though they were independent of their material origin. Multi universes, multi paraphrase for who has to dress the word “Rosa in her noble long dress to the cliff of Ebdara when Vernarth acclaims his brother Etréstles, he comes with the Auriga from Messolonghi. Rested and determined to head to Tel Gomel, he comes with his horse Kanti to keep him company on this crusade. Kanti defied the Cliffs of Crete, he was servile to Markos Botsaris, 1821 (Royal Hero of the Liberation of Greece in the Turkish Invasion, Koumeterium Messolonghi - Palibrio USA), until in the afternoon he approached from a herd of beautiful places of steeds to him. This was heard by Etréstles and he seized His horse to have more than a Life from his company, more than a lost and lost aroma of his natural mother, to reach the one who would treasure it”.

The ghosts attribute quantitative passages from before leaving King David, and then continuing on the road to Jaffa and advancing on the ship back to Cyprus; Limassol. All were hyperkinetic bowls leveraged by the terrain that was on the **** of the acrobatic histrion foreshadowing the contours of the temporal filigree, which in each one made them smile at the carriage with oxidizing wheels, still being immaterial beings, but alive in its marvel gases, wading the serious bile that emerged from the glasses in his allegories. His footsteps and his undulating phonetic figures did not stop over the caravan, which had already passed Jerusalem. They were already undaunted by themselves and overshadowed by the foreboding modulation and encryption of the rehearsals they were doing, over the heavy atmosphere that seized and begged a small piece of the attention of those who did not celebrate their Shiraz pirouettes.
The areas, volumes, and lengths were fully encompassed by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the acrobats ran along the banks of Ramallah, it was already winter, the city received them with winds and rains from the southwest alternating with cold and dry winds from the northeast. The acrobats went like master geometricians to condone the fuss of the caravan, devising a dodexagesimal system. (Twelve centuries of ultra-nocturnal geometry and shipwrecks at the Alexandria lighthouse)

Positioning as a base the number 12, to measure times and angles that they needed to avoid the voluminous rains that hit the caravan.  Incredibly, the volumetric position of the plantar legs of the camels seemed like wheels that rotated without stopping in any anti circumferential radius, making some clouds a shutter that enclosed them like a trapezoid of God's flock in the high semicircle of the waters that tried to fall. , like axiomatic staves of Euclid's beard tempering his elemental construct.

The linear position of each one of those who were mounted was a perfect ergonometric based on the Muladhara pressing the four red petals on pressing the Achilles heel of Vernarth, which was dimensioning the Ramallah triangulation, with the fungi that were housed in its Xifos sword in the jet tip that carried the dodexagesimal cartography. In the same position, the Apostle Saint John seemed, he carried the rosary in his left hand in geometry that elongated his nose and feet in an adonis triangle, thirsty for one hundred and twenty degrees of the sextant that broadened its spectrum to align with this Birthright. Thus the stars and planets are positioned as celestial spheres with the gravitation of the Olivos Berna, revolutionizing curved and flat equations that intuited to go beyond the crossed pirouettes that the acrobats did all the way, even further than those of the withered path of oil, purposely of the axiomatic systems that the Ghosts of Shiraz intended to establish.

Shiraz  Ghosts

These Persian Epi ghosts, axiomatized abstract and ideal entities relating models of austerity and lyricism, which fluctuated in the lines and planes of movements of the clouds with the counterpoint of the legs of the Gigas, leaving marks in the sand like a point Morse, straight and flat, until the fifth step that tried to cross the lines of Ramallah, for the parallelism that the centuries that asked Vernarth to reorder the geometric geography of time and the positions that were added as a delay effect in the Garden, essentially of a hyperbolic vision, to appropriate the entities of the Ghosts that grasp with their little finger the strings of the times associated with Gaugamela in his palatial sovereignty with the footsteps of Vernarth and in the phylogeny of a world that is born behind the confines of religious micro- genetics , from whose space is born in another and would accommodate a circular bijective function, to attract the aerosisms of Ein Kerem in the new life signs of J Joshua in the reborn One-dimensional Beams.

Vernarth diluted his bones to sit near the tarsus and accommodate it at the end of the vertebra of the Muladhara (Chakra of 4 petals), making a sub-technical geometric function to preserve the figures of darkness that were also diluted, to arrive at night close to of Jaffa, in the surroundings the isometric fire existing in each one and in two dimensions…, but born of a common one. Raeder and Petrobus wore their floating eyelashes full of dusty and dense manias on their faces, with splinters gum that they had released from one of the pirouettes of one of the mountebanks when colliding with the basic postulates of the Ghosts of Shiraz, deducing undulating spaces like snakes within the isometric fire that dazzled them with the burning senses of humor of the last drops of the Shemesh codifying themselves in an absolute intuitive measure, beyond all dimensions, which is Consciousness destroying the planes and spaces that multiplied among themselves as members of another geometric conscious dimension.

Arriving at the Ben Shemen crossing, everyone undergoes collective hypnosis; the ghosts manage to embody each of the components of the Birthright but omitting a great factor. They relegated the Hexagonality of the genetics of this caravan, not raising the ghosts when calculating the area of once they were being intracorporeal within the members, thus having to abandon before the last ray of Shemesh threw them on their faces ashes of the Gehenna, for this supposed reason to leave them condemned to recycle the human species, for the purpose of reproducing sacred human beings, but being subservient to the cravings beyond the immortality of the miscalculation that led them to the citadel of Karim Khan, surprised with its stamp of thick stone walls and circular towers in the heart of Shiraz. This gave them a warrior aspect contrary to their fame and history: this was a city famous for two thousand years for its culture, with its gardens and its poets, now if in a conspiracy by this beautiful odalisque ruse that attracted the guide of the ecstatic ghosts, in a bad moment of extradition to a bad context of epi ghosts not yet defined in their pockets of apprentices boasting on the laurels of weak and doubtful ideas, which still swarmed within his white heart, trying to reach Vernarth's as former commander Hetairoi, now a servile mystic. In such a way, the complicated as ghosts like "Sufi", being, in reality, the genetic soul of the double ax that carries the double edge of today ..., of the sacrament of Medea in Abdera.

Pro says a ghost from Shiraz (embarrassed):

"The Universe is a sea that longs for dry shores,
without sea and without other wet longings ...,
no possible maiden could
Try to dry it with your star hands ...
Who calms the crying of the Universe ...
even so ..., simile remains floating as a verse between his dreams "

"How can I make my dreams another dimension of the universe?
if he is quiet and does not make me float in his sea ...
How can I make it possible for the tips of its stars
fill the spaces that have revealed it ...
and that have made circular shores without a sea in the mists "

"I walk alone and nobody sees me ...
so I don't wake up the candles that smile and accompany me ...
between days that turn into mornings on the shore
of the solitude of the universe, that nobody embraces him ... "

“Now the days tremble from almost falling on themselves,
They come out alive from their own loneliness of exhaustion and fullness ...of whoever appreciates them in the mists ...
being able to surrender their attention in Ben Shemen ”.
As the Ghost of Shiraz expires in Ben Shemen, he escapes all for nothing in the triad of hypnotizing conventions that still resided in the shameless air that engulfed him, all over the stationary enclosures of the entertainment spaces caused by the acrobats and epi ghosts. That seduced the indecisive beings that sailed over the limbs that made them doubt where to refrain from continuing, outside the radius of the caravan or beyond the skies that did not cease to be in good spirits, of the universe passing through the white hearts, six on the inside and six on the outside in their traveling artist folds.

The lands that are accommodated by the time of parapsychological hypnosis tremble again, as a separation from the physical magnitude of Gethsemane.  Creating a sequence that bends the heads of the ghosts, filling their translucent physiognomies between a cold past and a frozen future, from a classic mechanic, which from now on would depend on the dice thrown by the Third Phantasm of time. Here a relativism would be opened to those who want to see the past in the orchard in an unstable particulate present, leaving far from splitting both parts of the archetype of today, like a subdivided clash of several times that allowed integrating the remaining phantasmagorical spectra, taking over a story on a pluriaxial axis that prevailed in the time of a supposed numerical line from a vector, aligning itself towards the compass of the distance that shines between both northern hemispheres in the minutes that go to the right and the solid-gas seconds that burst almost in the walls of their own liberated beings. The four ghosts of Shiraz, had time differentials before this event with the caravan, verifying the simultaneous prop between the two pairs of ghosts between four dissimilar, but poetic ones that made them here at this point obviate and cancel between two relative nomenclatures of physical structure. The durability and classification of these micro-times of the phantom epi would make the database that St. John the Apostle and Vernarth will accumulate with their eyes closed, each one surpassing himself from the debatable areas, which concern to estimate in occupying the spaces physical in some of them at will so that one of them could embark to Limassol. This simultaneous and relativistic multi-active line, encloses events and squares of spaces in the cinematographic time of the parapsychological regression, as a link of physical images slowed down in the evolutionary and cognitive memory, passing from the conduit of expectation memorization events towards the set of absolute figures. not pigeonholed, but approaching the universe in grasping scales of those who value them. This elucidates even the very conception of conceiving oneself as a ghost, rather in what is called "Epi Ghosts", of absolute belonging of the identical ..., outside of oneself "Being with them and not, as a tacit phase of a dragged story with the seconds that were not lived ... "

This scaling conception will allow them to reside a few millimeters from the consciences of the caravan that was advancing automated along the tracks that already made time and distance in front of the absolute, in a jiffy, having in their faces Rizhon Lezion, who was made of images more than a marked and concrete story in a mechanics that kept the body as part of a large volume in all, to the rhythm of the plantar areas of the Camels Gigas, dividing as a stream of water that would flow fragmented between past, present and future, but as a starting pattern to the future as the only "today" for the time of the times. This unified three-dimensionality would mark the mathematical space of the attempts towards the future of the contiguous camelids of the ghosts of Shiraz, for the ownership of time between all with a single identity that cries out for the univocal will to rearm, even if the winds are very strong. Of the partition,  which separates the world from God and the believing observer into the future with a believer from a historical past in obscurantism, leaving and entering a new world whose notion is to spend connected and bound in a systematization dependent on the great causes, although the static feels isolated from the dynamics, inquiring probative to unite between the ghosts and others, even though they are inferior forces under the line of the generous gaze and the parallelism of the attentive spectator, which suggests more openness to receive and delegate the circumstances of all physical, emotional, spectral and mental-spiritual dimensions, flexing the emotional states hierarchical night and day. Everyone falls asleep hugging on cushions of lamb saddlebags, making it possible to get closer to them too, close to the Ghosts and sleep next to them hugging with the decanted strength of the frames that hang from their faces showing the emotion of being favorite children of the Mashiach, absorbed in the Kidron Valley.

The frontier of the future will be the pre-act of not traveling too much of the physical love to the touch that only awaits the love of the sleeping of a Cherub, this may occur when the sheep climb the hill of our consciences, and manage to be perceived as the simultaneous harness of satisfaction, who lack the vision that would speak to them of a past belonging immobile, to this ethereal topology that will have to biodegrade the molecules of the seconds that sleep in the sheep-man wool saddlebags, at a higher speed than it would last to go back near from the palisade, where it crosses the path to the immemorial arcades of the Mashiach, spinning around all creation at a speed that determines a verse in its soul around the orthogonal of Shemesh, quadrupled and cloistered in its self-consciousness scattered like iceberg down the back in the submissive thoughts that long to be tied to more precious time.

Our lord has us more tied to an absolutist past and future, looking at his calendar divided in such a way that it always fits the day that hurts the shadows of a sharp past, so that it always smiles in us, as the best luminous sign, of whom and with whom to repair the damage of various wounds that travel through the times of time, always wounded, to and from the borders of an anachronistic past. The ghosts, always fast tetra, marginalize themselves to the sound of greater diligence, they fled in Rizhon Lezion, to wake up a little further away from the rays of the stationary Sun, which from now on always surfaced in the degraded dark circles of the mountebank, prowling around the festivities of who knows how to wait, to make a toast under the pretext of faith and hope that exempts the cardinal turned into a flower in white attire.

Shvil from the Angels

The fast epi phantom tetra was emaciated, they lost their north and since they could not walk, they were not energized by the radiosities of the earth, which dominates those who lend divine graces if their feet rested on the tapestry of those who threw their footsteps in winter already near Jaffa. The Shvil Angels were angels that were on the route that cordoned off the pilgrimage of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, they were full of flowering Berne Olive Trees that made trunks of floral arches at the entrance of this ancient port. They were three when they walked, they were always distributed so fast that they seemed to be six, but they ended up averaging the quantum of three for each of the components of the Birthright, which from today would be the great circumcision event of the Universe, to make it part of those who one day will have to caulk the rhombuses of the fragmented light beams on the path of heaven so high, in the name of the phrases that never tire of looking at the incautious years that are of our father by the exogalaxies in the total company of the invisibility and relativity of cautious time.

This Semitic seashore beauty indicates and invites us to reach its salty Hebrew waters of Yofi, reinforcing the phonetics that runs madly through the border hills with its heart in hand, when foreigners appear in the name of plausive phylogeny. That brings him a piece of bearable land from the Universal Flood, this is why the ancient Canaanites have to receive them with the table set, to entertain them with winter flowers in Jaffa. The Hellenistic tradition relates the name to Iopeia, which is Cassiopeia herself, mother of Andromeda. After Pliny the Elder the name is connected with Joppa, who was the daughter of ******, god of the wind. Where Vernarth locked his Aspis Skolié shield so that it would shine in the bilges of the Eurydice, under the pentagon’s of the bronze layer of his shield, every time he approached the Dodecanese when the Auriga descended from Andromeda on the back of a punished rower by the storms taking him away from his mother galaxy.

Thousands of years BC Its merchants glorified themselves with their baskets full of belongings and merchandise, for its inhabitants, who today pretended to be pharaohs who paid tribute to the marine corners through the coast that today seemed to open up with more new waters that were reborn from the capering of the swells, founding thus the omens of embarking to attempt and submit to the omens of sovereignty between Judah and the Hellenic lands, to work with noble trees in their armories and utensils, of which they played an honorable part after the maintenance of the emblem of the last portion, of the shaft of the libertarian triumph of Alexander the Great over the Phoenicians in Tire. In the New Testament, it is related how Peter resurrected the believer Tabitha (Dorcas, in Greek, gazelle) in Joppa (Jaffa) and, later, how near this city he has a vision in which Yahweh told him that he should not distinguish between Jews and Gentiles while ordering the removal of ritual (kosher) food restrictions followed by Jews.

The Shvil of the angels distanced themselves from the desire of this station without reaching them and not making them drink salty water from Jaffa, therefore they resorted to Petrobus who a few meters before reaching the port, summoned a large number of Dodecanese Pelicans who were waiting in great celestial flocks, which hovered happily above the sky welcoming them. The pelicans levitate from a risky juggling act, over the caravan and headed to the high seas, collecting saltwater, then they went along the initiation path of Shvil and reconvert the saltwater into sweet with hazelnuts so that they would have holy water, to insolate it and pour it into the canteens of the temple guards of the Canaanites who were waiting for them, to distract them, making them believe they were other Syriac lands such as those of Ashera, which in this act, perhaps it would be good for them to sponsor the Hexagonal Birthright.

But the paths of the angels have confederated before the noisy crowds and Ptolemaic lemurs, who were incorporated into the empty spaces that remained. Faced with this gravesite, Vernarth shouted to the sky with the force of Falangist tradition to himself, and acclaimed heaven, for the sake of freeing them from their definitive income to Jaffa, summoning the Hypatists; elite warriors and spearmen, for them to gather at the portal of the ante entrance of Jaffa, for others who never came from nowhere and nowhere, only blocking it from its perfect plan of memorial and theological heritage conservation, upon return from the exit Judah, to embark with destiny through the sulphurous point that  will boil them in temporary waters, towards the Cyclades and then the Dodecanese, triumphing in inhabiting them wherever whoever was and whoever arrived with foreign promise.

As dusk falls in its first nubile shadows, the  Shvil presents itself to you with these three angels dressed in ivory white, each with a book in each hand and in the other a candelabrum, giving signs of ultra-interpretive catechesis, allying with silica. In combination, after the vision of the charms of the knowledge spread. Earth and sky in the second angel, washing the Semitic dew of anguished Jaffa, with teachings of sleeping well and awakening, to walk in the lands that want to seize the senses, of those who are called not to be oppressed, behind the bars of the Morbid and illiterate pan-vision of the angles of hasty entertainment of the angels when they were called by the Angel Regent, simply relaying information easy to carry to their hearts, in faint powers and poetic lessons, before falling into a thorny forest, burning their tongues in furrows of afflicted human positions, to later redeem them fervently with the judicious power of God.

Vernarth, is distressed by matters of seeing them so tender and so fragile, allowing them to crawl toward him gently. Finally, on these three rules of the Shvil, Hanael introduces herself; "Speaking of hindrances stuck in the literary cabal of grateful compliments for all".   Alluding to Vernarth, a subject desensitized and also distant from any Sub Yóguica disciplinary doctrine. This led him to stand behind San Juan, protecting himself and scared of everything around him, he was seeing in front of him, on the upper left side itself, that Zebedeo was, San Juan's own father calling him!

Saint John the Apostle says: “Justice, at this time, allows us to alleviate ignorance, if the riddles allow us only to look for the answer, God will not be here…, it will only be emotional catharsis, through a merely ideological  Shvil or passage, which moves our meaningless sentences, definitely leading us to the coffers that rearm one after one, after the mistake. We are faithfully interpreted by them, but we detest our regencies with the Escaton, when we all pretend to follow his light of thunderous density towards the sky, prophesying to follow him without losing ourselves in him ..., held on his shoulder glossary. On the claws that are released from the dazed angelic prey, correcting its wavering vision, unraveling the living presence of condemnations or salvation, in Eden with your bare feet or in hell with no departure time”

Inexplicably, some Praetorian soldiers of Domitian appear, who would be restricting the departure of the tretacontero to Limassol, curiously they were the same ghosts from Shiraz that continued to represent such a bad event, just as when he was expelled to Patmos by Domitian in 95 BC, in size was the scandal that the Shvil angels produced with their impractical ideologies, who opposed such spectral imagery, in such a way that they replaced their figure with that of another Hellenic man who wanted to embark for Patmos, the other members were fully incorporated to the ship, which frolicked on the pranks as it proudly carried them to a new ocean. Around the last drops that jumped in Jaffa on the coastal rocks, others appeared when the last divided and scattered drops were going to shine the navigation temples, thus it is possible to board in the same ship that brought the principle from Limassol to Judah that transited from Lepanto.

The chapel of ministers reappears offering a ceremony, which would return the messianic remora to the Angels of Shiraz, to return to their former positions within the paths of biblical characters, who tend to commit adultery in the game of loss of consciousness of the Escaton, probably requiring that everyone have to make pilgrimage routes for all humanity secluded and liberated by themselves. The Saltimbanqui finally manage to jump into the boat to sail to the Dodecanese, but the Shvil of the Angels stayed where other celebrities will require them to reroute the Shvil Escaton.
Chapter XXIX
Ghosts from Shiraz to Jaffa
Part VII - Mashiach of Judah Miracle VIII
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
well... i know how you love to be made expectant with psychological premature ******* of ideas, other than banking, banana tweaking ****** the bendy part? i was asking the ****... is that Croatian **** in Korean? elevator blues, diarrhoea... welcome a suburb of Saul and we'll have Bangkok for jokes... did she just squint her eyes at me? hard to tell... squinting in Asia is like killing Jews in German occupied Poland, December in Krakow, is that snow or Auschwitz ash? see how poor the joke is, even with English black humour? Monty Python seems more like Benny Hill right now - i too love kids, preferred their limbs on toothpicks with Kentucky glace dip sauce... but you said: cheap Romanian, so i said: alright ******, you go back to the construction site, we'll send the Irish concrete layers home, we'll send the polish plumbers and the roofers home, we'll send the german installers of glass home...  how many office worker in this country would like to work in the outdoors? **** me, given facebook, instagram and twitter, gucci and the new **** of the fashion industry, revisionist capitalism and solo brands... um... about...  none;
they won't exit Europe, they're not as evolved as the Swiss or the Norwegians, sure they have the 0, 0 coordinates of Darwin, a starting point, but that doesn't mean they're Swiss or Norwegian -
well sorry, but that's how it stands, i'll be happy to send
the Romanians and the Bulgarians and the Poles home... can we dismantle the Shard while we're at it? it's not supposed
to be here... i don't blame the Russians feeding a father-role for
Putin, the anonymity of western democracy just gets to me,
i get ****** over by anonymous poker players, gamers, prior to computers we had a different sort of gamers, call them retards,
call them nerds, they're one and the same; they think they read
novels having recited maxims of the plot to perfect Italian choir of
an operatic - it really doesn't matter, i'll just bunch-up together
a few ******* to build me a castle like in the old days,
and it'll just be a sweet sixteen William IV in the Encyclopaedic enclosure of former economic dynamics of who boxed,
who rapped, who played basketball, who sprinted against Adolf,
while the natives lost the plot in zoological enclosures
and the hybrids invented souls to counter such
enclosing.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
.i can hardly feel nostalgic, when youtube was what it was, i could waste a good liter of whiskey and stay up all night trapped in the labyrinth of the most superior - ingenious algorithm, a personalised algorithm that was pure a.i.: it would learn from you, in the suggested feed, it always learned from what you like a priori and it would suggested a thesaurus interpretation, those were the fun odd days, a man could immerse himself in foraging for new music as well as butchering a liter of whiskey... lately my exploration days on the platform became nothing of human concerns, more a rat in a maze, even the drinking became dreaded labour of: "boredom"... some things had to change... what was the point of wasting a liter of whiskey per night on a screen that became as unshakeable as a mountain... so now, instead of wasting 20 quid a night on a bottle... half a liter will give me the lullaby effect... in terms of drinking that half a liter of whiskey: considering i will not enjoy using the internet as much... never mind the view count: i know that some written has a lower view count and that if it has a view count it builds up slowly... after all i am a modern contemporary... there's so much tolstoy to get through! the tally... but i will not allow myself the brahmi tally system, it's too complicated for my liking... and i can't write the european ||||(/) into html for some reason... let alone the chinese (正) version... i had to invent my own tally system - the braille tally:

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

    it's quiet a sobering experience...
                     only yesterday i drank about 250ml
and pretended to be asleep for six hours,
got up so refreshed that i started to decorate the kitchen
and made the most badass tagiatelli meatball sauce...
the trick was... onions garlic and two fresh chillies
fried first... a teaspoon of chilli powder
a teaspoon of paprika fried first,
   chicken stock added, then some tomato puree...
let that thicken...
meanwhile make the meatballs...
the breadcrumbs should be made into a paste
by adding milk... the meat fused with the breadcrumbs,
salt, pepper and italian herbs:
oregano, thyme, rosemary, basil etc. fried
and left to the side...
    a can of chopped tomato, worcestershire sauce...
some sugar... salt / pepper to taste...
then the meatballs would go in...
            the old youtube: explorer-tube is
not coming back...
        and... quiet frankly?
           exploring these alt. media outlets is a bit
of a headache...
what good is gab.ai to me,
                                         when i never used twitter?!
whatever this current: "culture war" is...
                  it's not worth fighting...
                             at this point videos gain
the traction of "count"...
         but then the "count" becomes diffused into
stupid comment sections where people need
the obligation to shout and pass the queue with
raised elbows...
                            repossession - a synthwave  music
mix...
                tomorrow i'll finish decorating the kitchen,
save myself another 10 quid...
try to find about 3 hours of sleep...
                     and i'll look back at the years
from 2008 through to 2016 as a glorious period
in internet history that has:
   unfortunately died and how the future generations
will never experience what i've experienced
when it came to an a.i. music shop assistant...
   so they say: a.i. will take away many professions...
by the looks of it...
   the first a.i. job for an a.i., as a music store curator...
the first a.i. music shop assistant?
fired... out of a job...
            it's strange...
                            oh but not so very strange...
a.i. to steal the jobs of humans...
    looks like humans hit first...
   and stole a.i.'s first job prospects,
on a site like youtube...
                     and what a fine job this a.i. did...
i never knew so much alt. music existed...
      well i did and i didn't: that's up for debate...
in translation? if you buy a vinyl copy
of a record... you still get a code to a site that lets
you download the mp3 copy...
so the best of both worlds...
                                a vinyl... and mp3s...
but bye bye wasting away every night on a site
that turned against its a.i. music shop assistant...
here's to sobering up...
                    by gradations...
       after all: one decent "poem" a glorious night
is enough to five spewed like venom spat from
                                                                      an u.z.i.


even i become remotely "o.c.d." when it comes down to
the english sway of notation.
                 i'm talking a basic arithmetic,
a basic arithmetic of notation in english, or quiete simply
english notation.
                         i deem         "    "       to denote:
                        a quote, of a quote - as in: third party
resources being cited.
                                            what i'd definitely be satisfied
with as deeming a quote, would be a    '          '      
                                                         encapsulation;
but the way english speakers denote a quote a quote
by using "         "     encapsulation? to me that's arithmetically
unsound...  or to use a blunt knife expression: simply wrong.
first of all             " = ditto
                 perhaps the english are unfamiliar with
continental standards of linguistic coding, but  " = ditto,
but of course         ditto ≠ quote...
                               " ≠ quote,
so why would you utilise the ditto symbol to imply, quote?
            it doesn't matter if it's either side of said words,
the symbol is not a quote-based symbol to be used...
   '        '       is; yep, two *******... now who's feeling creepy?
" = /as above/
        where no 2nd or 3rd party sources are cited / quoted -
at best the     "     "   encapsulation can only mean one thing,
and one thing only: ambiguity:
                        a bit like saying - a friend of a friend, said
that he once ordered k.f.c., and in it he found
        a k.f.m. (kentucky fried mouse)...
                                                but that's about it.
the ditto mark implies                               paraphrase,
you're basically rewording something,
                                  borrowing from the already stated
     in the above, given script, of your own original output.
so you see, i don't know how "      " encapsulation can denote
a quote, if the basic arithmetic states,    ' + ' = ",
                         and by the time someone supposedly quotes,
the notation of supposed citation will morph into  "'       "'
                       type of enclosure.
Babatunde Raimi Sep 2019
Please i need help
Don't leave me like this
I can't sleep
They say it's sleep-onset insomnia
But from the beginning
It was not so

Maybe it is psychological
Their pains in my heart
With pictures of them
Begging for their lives
But i still cannot sleep
And from the beginning
It was not so

Their bulging eyes
As they take their last breathe
To a journey of no return
Their offense
Victims of a failed system
But from the beginning
It was not so

Why are brothers killing brothers
Brothers killing sisters
Sisters killing brothers
Wiping out communities
For the glory of what?
Where is our morals?
The spirit of comrado?
But from the beginning
It was not so

Though obscure
We need to ask
Where are the jobs?
Who has the reins?
That has stagnated Africa
Black people, black mind
A phrase that depicts backwardness

Even the Heavens have Guardians
Nothing passes their sight
They have been enfired
To neutralize aggressors
But, can my brother be an aggressor?
Trust at your peril
That's where we find ourselves

In the Jungle
It's "No man's land"
Where the strong prey on the weak
As long as you are powerful
Or seemingly untouchable
You are licensed to ****
Africa bleeds
Yes, Africa bleeds.

Each time you strike
A wife looses a husband
The children; a father
The family; a breadwinner
The Community; a philanthropist
The nation; an Ambassador
Africa; an illustrious son

Stop cattle rustling
Stop political machinations
Stop hate speeches
Especially From the altar of religion
The internet inclusive,
For it is divisive
Stop the killings
That Africa may live
And not just survive

Break the walls
Let's build bridges
Open up your enclosures
That i may come in
And dine with you
That is how life was programmed

To achieve our SDG's
Our ******* is prime
That your people be my people
My people, your people
That we may give the boy child a life
And the girl child a voice
And build the Africa of our dream

The carnage in Rwanda
Aparthied in South Africa
Insurgency in Libya
The killings in Nigeria
Mirrors the travails of Africa
Rooted in corruption
All must stop now

How did we get here?
A people divided
Along ethnic and religious lines
Detached along tribal and economic
But from the beginning
It was not so

We are tired of bloodsheds
We demand peace
The white on the Nigerian flag
Invisibly tainted in red
Being the blood of the innocent
But surely, nothing lasts forever
For surely, justice will be served

Stop saying "Kafasasu"
As our heart bleeds
When you open up our brothers
With your knives and weapons of mass destruction
Sending them into a journey
A journey into the unknown
Oh gods of our ancestors
Where are thou?

The God of our creation
Send us a Moses
That will lead us from where we are
To where we ought to be
Our promised land of peace and unity
Equity and justice
That we may return with offerings

Stop the rustlings!
Stop destroying our crops
No life should equate that of animals
No animal should be silenced unjustly
Why do you think prayers are said
Before any animal is slaughtered?
The act is sacred
Friends, we are all animals
In different shades and sizes
But place premium on life

Once i saw a documentary
Featuring a helpless Antelope
Feeding her young
Until a pride of Lion approached
As her young sprinted
The mother waited and sacrificed
A sweatless feast for the Kings
But the Eagle watched
She could have helped
Enough of nonchalance
Get on and be engaged

Praying for Africa is a beginning
Taking conscious steps is progress
That the Creator may hear our voices
And have mercy on us
Let my people be your people
Give me a damsel from your clan
I will give you a Prince from my tribe
That we may unite

Refuse to be nonchalant
Refuse to be intimidated
Especially on the part of justice
Let us come together
As a people of one race
That we may build Africa
And the world at large
Not by the sword
But the strength of our unity
For all these ills
From the beginning
It was not so

Babatunde Raimi (c)
Author/Life Coach/Poet
Molly Oct 2013
A thick flood of thought clogs
lemon teeth and pools, crude
and salty behind lost red eyes.
Gouge them hollow! Darken the moon.
Brittle moans like a swollen beehive
loom tall, fifty miles behind the lost craters.

Hugs from pigs in blue,
they dance and loll around the flames,
a funky dark against their luminous fire.
Proud and bogus (and probably ******),
bitter about foul books they never read,
statues made of fear in the groins of men.

Ruined: hurled into a crag,
torn and singing, trapped in loops -
No elbow room in black hole falls.
Snoring next to wives wrapped in shawls,
hugging her leather Buick seat,
praying to wake up gaunt and lithe.

They rise, mornings, clutching onto dreams
in which they fly through the cold gloom.
They scratch desperate screeds onto napkins,
bite squirming, disobedient tongues,
souls raw, chafing in their dank enclosures.
Animals! Bred to elect ourselves for slaughter.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
V

Turning away from the temptation of town to walk in twilight viewing the warm lights from the ancient buildings those enclosures of chapel library refectory student rooms fellows’ chambers offices guarded by men in bowler hats whose occupants cross courtyard and cloister purposefully sometimes gowned (for the tourists perhaps) those cobbled passages the tall chimneys the gates and railings suddenly back in the busy streets bicycles everywhere tea necessary tea I catch the fatigue in your face time for apple strudel and jasmine infusion with a view of the chapel it took a hundred years and three Henrys to build.

VI

Choristers have a special way of walking in their robes swish they go as they make that 90 degree turn to enter the Choir the layclerks play this down but will forget themselves and swish the gown flies out Decani and Cantores go their separate ways to stand by their candles bow towards the altar the introit Oh Lord, I Lift My Heart to Thee by Orlando Gibbons a choir man in this very place 1596-8 knowing the echo well wrote accordingly hard not to tremble as the music floats to the stone vaulting a 170 feet above our heads

VII

Famous as a thespian kindergarten plays abound and tonight there’s six to see We enter an L shaped room with the stage at the right angle a sitting room with a green sofa a door to a bathroom a knitting basket on the coffee table four characters (and a bump) with two penguins (one disguised as another – real - hiding in the bathroom) there was even a piece of Battenberg cake on our seat to eat make of that what you will we did and laughed though not without the occasional poignant lump in the throat a tear in the eye

VIII

You sit with your back to a mirror so I practice smiling aware of the pleasure your bright face brings me constantly this warmth of your company the tilt of your head your cheeks’ glow the sweet cadences of your voice though tired food and wine revive It won’t be too late after the brisk walk back through the brightly lit streets forever letting our hands come apart then re-engage to manage the pavements and throngs of Friday evening so much today so much to take to bed my love your beauty nightdressed in white to my surprise and pleasure
D.T. Lethe Jul 2010
I awoke to prized tastes swimming tributaries across my lips;
tiny trickles of sighs stretching skin tight chasing last nights kiss,
last nights embracing dreams falling off eye lids stripped of
cognition and it’s the ignition of ten thousand eyes watching
blankets rise and fall next to my resting naked form.

Fingers’ nails attach to linens stitch, searching language
whispered in early morning nights passing out and around
made up words and tortures to galling laughs and insipid
shakes of bodies rocking together, mid-nights haste to
be first to drop off the edge without slipping.

I want to wake the blanket,
Oh! How I want to wake it! Shake
it and break it’s dreaming mind to
slumbered reality.

I listen to the ivy growing through the windows closing me into
homes close to wooded enclosures, chirping gnaws in my
eye’s veins twitching beats chest deep. I sigh over blankets
tossing form and watch with smiles that have forgotten to
remember the smiles reason.
Across the reflective fields of Hill Country grass begins to escape its icy enclosure ..Black Angus leave red clay impressions bound for green pastures ..Mourning doves wail their somber retreat as first light exposes the prequel to Heaven .. Blackbirds and smoke from morning bonfires alight , the promise of daylight is scented with Oak and Hickory as fields of cotton appear to ignite . Tin roofs begin to glow , church bells awake villages on the horizon . Golden waves pan Eastern skies , Sycamores sequester abundant sunshine ..Sparrows , Chickadees and Finches gossip without end , Bluejays and Brown thrashers command the fence line once again .
Barbed wire enclosures divide the landscapes , dancing scrub Pines act as reeds , filtering the breeze with the music of natures continuity ..
Blacktop drives ribbon the lonesome acreage , goat herds graze the property frontage . Quarter , Morgan and Appaloosas quietly graze against the backdrop of nineteenth century farm houses .. White silos and red barns , gourd birdhouses , dug wells and smokehouses ..Bantam roosters and hens sift through acorns beneath two hundred year old Water Oaks ..
Copyright January 12 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
much of j. r. r. tolkien is unoriginal, the dwarfs are basically jews, thrór is simply king solomon, amassing great riches, the dwarfs are exiled; it's a clever plagiarism of historical events.*

for the ones that say: too see patterns in holes
in phonetic units, too see
lions in zoological enclosures of curiosity,
to craft orbits of curling lips
and numbed tongues within trebling
kabbalah is the forgotten anatomy
of only the mouth, the gate into the mind,
find the mouth a curiosity, you will enter
solomon's mines of wealth, where each
thought an idea, the constantly pressurising
scalpel furthering you on: it was islam
with the gift of the holy graffiti of scribbles
on walls: their verboclasm that pursued us
to abuse a fondness of erecting statues no more...
to copyright and trademark an arrangement
akin to coca-cola with hope of lettering
a statue into motions of nonchalant waves
and lashes...
to abandon representation of chiselled cheeks
and foreheads to carve into marble
and other stones the phonetics while
leaving the many ignorant and dyslexic
is too a blasphemy on the original demand
of the commandments: this engraving of
the tongue's recognition of sounds is equally
abhorrent.
Fah Sep 2013
At first it is only a tinge on the horizon, barely distinguishable from the stars that hang. Then it unfurls , illuminating an inch of the sky at a time. An honest yellow , fervid pinks and reddish hues all blend into the gradually brightening sky, where the lid of indigo is being removed in favour of cornflower and aquamarine. below is an abyss - the wisps of cloud capture the color and let it seep… The cloud kingdom is slowly being consumed and still more join the Frey. Deep oranges mingle with the pinks, new clouds appear and in turn , like a xylophone being played by a child, sporadic , are lit up. Soon it is all around and the only signs of nights enclosures are the few bold stars who dare to watch, the rise of the sun.
Kate Lion Jun 2016
I'll go under the knife
Operate on myself
Split my head open with the toothpicks I used to poke at leftover failures that weren't there

I'll take my own brains out of my head with my hands
Ask the doctor for a scalpel
And maybe a friend

Humans weren't always like this, you know
Maybe there was a time when the things we were most afraid of were outside of our heads, maybe there were enclosures besides our own ribcage we never wanted to be trapped in

I feel a mini version of myself
Pounding against the glass of my forehead
Begging to be let out

The key is around here somewhere, maybe
But I can't be too sure because at some point being stuck in my own head was all I ever wanted.

Let me out.

I breathe here and there
The rest of the time I feel lifeless
There is nothing in my body worth salvaging
I could call a suicide hotline and ask them why I would ever want to live

And they wouldn't know what to say
The world would be more or less the same without me

Why do I plunge daggers into my own legs and then sit on the rocks by the trail to mourn my fate
Unsuccessful
Worthless
Wasted
I could have been so much more
More what, you ask
And the truth is I don't know

Maybe I am a paper cup in a cupboard of crystal glasses and beautiful things

Maybe I'm the ashes after the rare and beautiful light of the fire has faded

How am I supposed to know what I am?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
But the beholder is broken because the beholder is me.

Maybe one day I will gather my postcard thoughts and have a thesis on why people hate, and why my face twists into ugly grimaces when I think about the bad in the world

I wish the good had as powerful an effect as the bad, and maybe it does but the good might not occur as often.

I don't really have a way to end this,
Even though I want to.

And the lines above could refer to my life, this poem, these tragedies.
Harry J Baxter Dec 2013
It was the sort of day
that equates to the last day
December **** it
why is it sixty and humid enough to swim circles through the air?
yet the grey mist suffocates the horizon
and the light mist tastes like a city
the cat standing on driveways of crumbling mansions
running with fur puffed up from wild dogs snarling at choke chain collars
The trees are all hiding their heads in the sand
and each building passed decays in decadence
everybody hungry enough to do something they might regret
men and women taking shelter in zoo enclosures
to avoid the jungle cats which stalk the streets beneath blood red hunters' moons
It was the kind of day to make me want to see the next
Tom McCone Aug 2014
off along the wall, head
in clouds: dissemblance, smoothed,
covered, glistening. repetitions
in static, falling rain. repetitions
outside, under the porch. light
like waves in consistent motion
and removal. too many
names. too much love. swollen
up, like knotted deck timber
in this downpour. still and left
to walk home. alone, again.
happens all the time,
by choice; fine delusion. by
flames licking at the cusp. out
under the irreplaceable canopy
we're left, slowly rotating. soft
magnetic fields. candles encased
in ice. clear night. words tip in
enclosures of crisp unfolding
breath. significance. diffusion.
harmonicity. my analytic heart.
decomposition. won't sleep. won't
let out. your tender clasp. vines
wash up and around finger
tips, around ventricles. shuttin' down,
relentless deceleration. relenting
pace. pinched aorta. all under
some fictitious caress. some
later eventuality. some song
never uttered. not yet.
not just yet.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i found that showing off your
taste in music
is actually more intimidating
than walking around in Eden
stark naked - given
the auspiciousness in the "glamour"
industry and elsewhere, odd, isn't it?
we are more ashamed by
our musical taste, shunned by it -
the Balkan Slavs are the Spaniards
of what most people call "cheap taste",
you now, oiled and greasy
six packs and - well the Balkan Slavs
bred with the Ottoman Turks,
what do you expect?
we are more intimidated by our taste
in music being exposed than our naked
bodies -
believe me, i'll cry at the beauty,
i'll cry at the beauty but i will not despair -
i rather allow tears in, because i know
laughter too will come, i rather cry at beauty
than inhibit it with a masculine heart
expected of me to be stern and in the belgian
trenches - stupid youth idolising the warring
of old farts who have a disclosure for
swollen prostates and can't take the banta (
huh?! goli? i hate slang incorporation,
it's absolute nonsense) -
so instead they shove young men into warring
enclosures and then lay wreaths of poppies
with a 1 minute silence... i told you,
absolute ******* - i rather cry at beauty when
it appears like a picturesque sunrise -
that Armenian will have a beef stake weighing
at half a kilogram to box with translating my works -
i don't mind standing naked like this,
another example https://goo.gl/pJpddh.
I was walking down a hallway, when a head rush overtook me. blindly ambling forward, the walls, floor, and ceiling lurched in on me.

I was struck by the absurd notion that human beings must be enclosed within these confined spaces. it parallels the idea of the lines, spaces, and boxes that society draws upon and around us that we must remain in.

man is not free.

yet this contradicts the statement made by Jean Paul Sartre, explaining that “man is condemned to be free.” how can this be? we attempt to free our minds, and yet we remain in the enclosures we physically and mentally draw around ourselves.

the walls seemed like they were closing in, and it reminded me terribly of a time that I knew I was losing my mind.

the concept of space and the universe was slipping away from me; before becoming vastly distorted, lacking all meaning. it was like slipping away into the infinite black abyss once more.

all of these thoughts and feelings rushed over me at once: some verbal, most instinctual. unspoken. primitive, as if this knowledge lived within us, residing in our bones since the dawn of mankind.

the entire experience lasted approximately four seconds. it made me nostalgic yet nauseous to remember that I once to lived my entire life in this state.
April 22nd, 2013 

I vaguely remember this experience.
it was just another flash of clarity among an ocean of monotony.

however, this was before I dove deeper into the works of Sarte.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
what poetry could not
the easiest access for rhyming,
e.g. the less i feel the more (a#)
i tend to harvest the ore (a#),
because it all feels domestic (b)
too modest too anachronistic (b)...
rhyme for me has become
deluded in terms of its importance
in poetry, it's un-important,
several technique references also,
but not so much, rhyming is the prime,
people everywhere are asking for abstraction,
they want to be able to read mathematics
by reading complex poetics
so they can craft a patent for ignoring
the verbs associated with mathematics
and entrench themselves in flanders fields
of nouns... i'm bilingual i have no talent
for crosswords, even the easiest ones,
but i can do a su doku... although not samurai
ones... if i state a vector and no one
travels along this route, it's no bother...
the last time i checked i felt inclined to
teach the south of Rodin's kiss, the north,
the west and the east in terms of changed narration
due to changed narration due to changed
perspective... all enclosures in cubic representation
where allowed, those in squared representations
of square on square like david's lyre of triangle
on triangle where the scientific approach
rather than lazy religious...
elsewhere two coordinations for the template
of abstracted three dimensional bodies
proved the one dimension that didn't exist
beyond the pinpoint "coordinate"...
otherwise known as the blind-spot.
poetry needs to evolve, it can't be stuck in the pit
of effort to keep with tradition, to keep with
technique... it has to forget technique
that might identify it as poetry,
the use of metaphor et al. does not necessarily
precipitate poetry, casual language usage
has become too stiff too predictable because
poetry has become so also...
imagine having other conversations,
philosophy has long quenched poetry,
crushed it, made it too democratic,
meaning anyone can write it,
only because plato's republic stated that
the rulers were not entertained by poets
in times when you couldn't record music
and stream it but had to be ready impromptu to
sing song... poetry, thanks to plato has become
too democratic, everyone's allowed a poem,
a demeaning signature of an X...
it has lost its republican status...
where is the: let poet ease my ear before i draft
the inauguration speech... so you see the tradition?
politicians want poets to speak with them,
they want one from the people to bless
the president's speech... but beyond that poetry
is a ***** art-form, and because of it,
it has become a wredna sztuka / wredna nauka,
which translates as: abhorring / abhorred art / science...
sztuka also translates as unit... hence the nuances
readied... like the reform of a 1984 law...
foresight accounted for, in terms of what
could be prevented... diluted understanding
does not necessarily involve an enlightened meaning,
in lawful terms it means confusing the populace,
confusing the strict guideline is a profit margin
in the courts of law...
the interpreter read the judge's speech
and didn't believe the necessary intricacy of ******,
he confused people with a gang of thirteen,
one carrying a knife, three carrying grit silver,
the rest not knowing... the three along with the one
accused, manslaughter the case resolve,
i understood the complexity of the high court judge's
wording, prime and auxiliary defendants,
prosecutors in tiers: victim, judge and jury...
the prosecutor tier missing because ineffective
and underpaid... prosecutors are effectively
the lawyers of the unread, uneducated...
currently there's an egyptian working the legal
system accused of the highest abomination
among the legal columns of un-excusable...
he committed a crime, and he's practising law...
one day his career will be over...
the man opposing never asked for reparations,
didn't ask for a jail cubic...
he asked for the beginning bias of the act not
perpetrated... ontologically speak, it's a question
of how man unto man should act, when given
the onomatopoeic simplicity of animals...
in england i will not receive justice,
i've been given a fake mental health history,
and thus dis-integrating from a society
i've known since the age of 8, i must someone
integrate my thought into my ethnic origin,
hence i need the european conglomerate of
many nations union...
because a psychiatrist in england
is actually a neurologist in poland
and the latter, dicta: if someone says you're
mentally ill, they're mentally ill themselves.
Jane Neutral Oct 2014
Want, want to stay in your paradise always
yearn for your presence when you're out of touch
flames trickled at first and then ate us in a blaze
barely remember how it was to feel your embrace.

Lost into oblivion, a dispersion of family members
all my doing, my fault, my fault, my death.
Wounded and weeping, helpless by my own choosing
flames easily stretched us apart an put us fully in the dark.

Desire to bring them back, yet constantly brinking on goodbye,
can't do it again to me or to them.
So far so good, my loneliness reasons.
What was ventured was also lost, so don't try again.

Heart yearning for the sweetness of others,
can't reach them under private enclosures.
Liquify my excitability, lose my desire for company.
Stillness is all I have, it wraps around my destiny.
Think of the lonely hearts at the zoo
Kept captive for reasons they haven’t a clue
Souls kept unpaired on the ground
Not a mate for them could be found!

Should have thought of it when trapped from the forest
Or acquired them from another zoo
Showcased them those unwilling guests
Forgetting they need mates too!

Mightiest animal decides these creatures’ fate
Dictates how they should live and be grown
The right time to love and have a mate
Or spend life in their enclosures alone!

In the name of care you make their lives messy
Consign them to the doom of loneliness
You ruin their home invade their privacy
No wonder the zoo doesn’t have a happy face!
It was in the news recently that a zoo is unable to acquire mates for its red kangaroo, chimpanzee and jaguar.
Esther Jun 2016
Curtain covered views
In neon lighted enclosures;
I hide in the openings of walls
And catch glimpses of passing shoes
Taking kilometres like a flower
Takes water from the sky
Tasting the light hearted lies
Spat into the air by too many
Heated lips wasting movement,
Not kissing the coolness outside.
The open doors avoided-
Let me walk in the shadows
Where rodents feel safe…
I wonder if their houses are as cosy
As the light that never reaches
Protected places of the underworld.
Sitting saddened by the demons imagined
Forgetting to listen to the echoes below
The low music of the ages
Resting on mounds of life’s
Discarded dreams left to us gremlins.
Leroy J Harris Apr 2014
Sharin's troupe requested horses,
Were given destriers to ride back into serenity's dominion,
Sitting atop animals raised to believe in nothing yet die for everything,
Costly saddles lifted from slain foes, torn from stilled blue.
Brought images of black and red into tearful focus,
They are just orphans, abandoned by an uncaring world,
Why would Toblin want to despoil such temporary innocence?
They all came to a shared conclusion,
Suspected greedy gold enclosures, sought to capture her,
As she slept below the soil that was her's to give,
Restored and given back to destructive children, who'd broken all their toys.


LOVE is beyond 'NOW'
The future or past or present

But / Yet
We are in LOVE
Irrespective of the worldly
Notion of time

Our LOVE is neither
A path or destination
A journey or solitude

Yet there are
Lurking unknown shadows
And dark enclosures
To cage our LOVE

LOVE is the only light
That illuminates our dark LIFE

Thus we have to live LOVE
And not waste this -
Realization & experience of LOVE

Let those who are
Living life without LOVE
See our LOVE and know that
Our LOVE is beyond
The Notion of Time

Soul-connect of our LOVE has liberated
The whole cosmic creation of life

With LOVE,
Many centuries of imprisoned desires
Are set FREE - wings in flight

LOVERS will NEVER understand
The notion of time - 'NOW'
Present or past or future



Kìùra Kabiri Apr 2017
Adam, beauty of my splendours’ wake
Adam, gorgeous of my woman's make
Like blended incense of a skilled perfumer-longer lasting
Precious is your every moment’s memory-forever fascinating

Sweet like honey dripping with tastes
Exulting like melodic music to banquet
Exalting as glory of saints sequences
Fragrant like blossoms-blooms to bouquet
You are awesome, Adam, my handsome!

Betwixt your endearing arms embrace
There is no other kingly palace-
In the world, better than being in this place
You are mine ever, fortified fortress!

Your arms enclosures are posh and precious-what a delightful pleasure!
Than all the Royal Palaces in the world- the Palace of Pena,
The Buckingham, the Bellevue, the Palace of Versailles…..
You are my refuge, my strength, within you I am at peace!

Your hugs and kisses are the safest and secure citadel, château!
More than the newly built castle-Castle In Love with the Wind, Conwy Castle
The Château de Chambord or the worldly Windsor Castle, the Edinburgh Castle
Better than the Neuschwanstein or the Alcazar or the Culzean Castle  

On your pleasured chest
What more luxury lusciously nest?
Than this peacefully plumed softs on to rest
On yours is a cozy quilt pillow-purest!  

Adam, I adore you, you are the one for me and I am the one for you!
Like you are never any and if any there are not many but only of you a few
Adam, my strong man, your body is like the vigour of a youthful river flow
Shaped and chiseled finely like Archangel Michael’s-without any a flaw  
Your stamina is of a stallion, raised for the royal loyal knights, princes and kings

You eyes, they burns with allure like summer suns, with calmness and warmth
Your looks alone, burns my cold skin with a warm tenderness and a happy healing health
With you, again, my under skins shivers, vibrates with a new chill feel of elated lively wealth
You build stars for me even when my sky is a sorrowful sea of melancholy and misery

Adam, look at how you build-fascinating, amongst the pride of your elites
Like a cherub injected with alchemies of never getting old but growing younger
Straight and tall you stand-dominant before me conquered, deeply rooted as Lebanon’s cedars
And when me you touch gently o-ooh! It is with soft so tender as river lilies sacred splendours
Adam, you are killing me, skinning me while still I am living, let me first die for you!  

Let me feel your loving lips digging deep into mines meager burning complete even my heart  
Let me first touch those sinews and serrations all over your graceful figurine  
Let me first prostrate, adore you-my king and knight, my warrior and worship!  
Let me fancy you muscle man, a delighting idol of your deity’s outline
Let me a little look in those starry eyes of yours and see my fragility safe in their security

Let me feathery feel weighed in those toddler’s sways and swings of your swift palms lifts
You arms strength drawing all my energies faint, as it goes round my wasp’s waist  
Then you can slay and slice me-**** me subjugated into a humble defeat before you
In whatever way you want and feel best, I am capitulated-your captured and conquered queen!

Adam, before you, you are the coveted master and I am your surrendered slave
Besides you let me leafy feel, little and small dancing on your burly biceps
And my brittle petite bottoms sit safe on top of your large ****’s laps
For you alone are my glorious king-Adam, you send me deep into my craving grave
Stretch and save me from the abyss of my trepidations and temptations-I want you, for good!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
vega Jul 2020
autumn leaves
and nothingness
seasonal escapade
ache more for less

hills that whisper
junipers without whim
love without living
wounds without skin

mental imposter
corrupted serenity
flimsy enclosures
where art humanity

mountains that shake
hellebores without bloom
live without loving
oxygen unconsumed.
karin naude May 2017
i also need help
can't help my quills
please don't mind the pain
i try to keep them flat
old memory confuse new emotions
my defenses flare up
kicking screaming and fussing
i draw blood
no one wants to come close
afraid
alone in the knife drawer i live
exiled
deemed dangerous and edgy
these 6 enclosures
no windows
alone
my stubborn nature
refuse to yield
i will over come
a home i made
i love my home
my comfort and haven
small heaven to me
no porch light
no second chances
forgiveness lives next door
Jack R Fehlmann Oct 2014
I guess the madman
have calculated urges
disturbing angles
and unknown destination
exponential compromises
are words unsaid.
leaving leads to a labyrinth
full of unwanted things there
are the sounds you hear
of your own heart beating
that then seems to echo out
and fall to pieces
imposing places of
contemplation seeking direction
and comforting
they're all of the skills
They are barred
with in Wheeling, Broken,
and imperfect scars
scars that speak
in voices without tongues
They fluently create the lies
currency of  and for
causing discomfort as designed
glinches come at random
places that there is concern
that the illusions tell now,  cherished
and innocent versions all dressed up
False faces of who we are
feeding risky randomness
auditions held for the part of grown up obsession over
the past happy to give
flawless proof of lives In motion
not punching like creatures
Vultures circling over poisoned enclosures
those explorers so eagerly lost
create what happens
and I recognize the patterns
and the direction entices them
the misunderstood
They,  the lacking
the admiration leaching from the dependent
alien reasons for force
human consumption
we want so we approach
imagining admiration
as the fake see clearly
This comes along empty and fruitless weeping on road
they twist and turn to our destination listen for proof
Find strangeness from the terrified smiling as reflex is often fun to witness
Life is a marketing bonanza
Fretted upon by the aged
and confusing the greater purpose
It is unflattering
The images are set on dancing
in dream- like exuberance
But for our Commercial grade lifestyles worn out just as the next latest arrived motion that spurs ordinary
traditions are lessees and should lead
follow behind today showing.
direction and dramatic pauses
decisions create ruined morals
floating on an endless breeze
they are carried past the gate
seemingly entitled
as if born there and welcome
Off is the practiced flaws
missing is the counter balance
confrontation unspoken is kin to action anger is without conscience
mistakes have been made.
deception is practiced,  perfect.
just like me - a walk right now my brain kind of with its own directions vomiting all of this out

— The End —