i don't have a conspiracy theory... i just have an encyclopaedia of adverts... western intelligence is squandered on pub quizzes and trivia knowledge shows... spies are like magicians, although a spy's audience is a bunch of journalists high on tarantula venom, quote: (uh... what's going on?) take any stoner to speak that bracket.*

when my parents were eight, they were still
blossoming in a natural environment,
using the inherited tongue like a hammer:
here's the nail, here's a plank of wood,
now hammer that thought of yours in.
aged eight i was thrown into the deep end,
having to learn a new language, as somehow
unlearn my mother's tongue, i didn't budge,
i kept it scheming, rather than subconscious,
i didn't repress it... thrown into the deep end
i didn't become like most migrants
"assimilated", i.e. losing heritage... i kept it
(just in case)... now the chameleon of me
is about... suit & tie... then tracksuit bottoms...
no little russian kakashka (little ****)
would dare **** me, all the information i have
is useless... it's too personal...
i was supposed to be the rebound guy...
she sort of faked using anti-contraceptives...
i ended up a boomerang after seeing all
the possibilities of education...
that's the thing with the west and education,
it, just, doesn't, work... because all the menial
jobs have been exported, the west is sort
of puzzle-box tied in terms of hands able,
with hands actually disabled...
this excess outpouring of poetry is one sign,
the obvious one, excess poetry as deviation
from a chronology of illiteracy and books left
in the shadows and dust and crematoriums...
you tend to write poetry when you're either
illiterate or haven't read much that's on offer...
read the least number of books, then you get
to write poetry, simple as Victoria sponge or
bechamel sauce for a lasagne, motto being:
just keep stirring that flour into the frying butter,
just keep stirring, then slowly keep adding
onion bay leaf nutmeg infused milk slowly...
just keep on stirring...
western society likes bureaucracy, by way of
exporting the ideal that's democracy,
but it's so ******* n'ah! keep slang as an expression
of encrypted onomatopoeia, keep slang
as disguised nouns in onomatopoeias...
russians love poetry, hence they tend to send poets
into the gulag... in western society they
take poets to be raw meat and send a dozen flies in
to **** sperms into it, to clarify:
pornographic actors get paid, poets don't...
O masters of this glorious sphere, what will
this Eden Project prove? a third eye that's Voyeurism
en masse? when the blow-over fringe was running
for president i just said (no, no hindsight):
i wouldn't laugh... imagine a female pope!
women are not supposed to wear the Kippah...
western society in crisis; today i was watching the
film Cleopatra (1963) and there was so much dialogue!
take a movie from 2015 or 2016 and the dialogue
you get is: TNT BOOM BOOM BOOM!
CGI that's a fake of pixels being arable for the original
intention... the great decline... it only too one hit...
one ******* hit... and it ended up being a K.O.
you'd think they'd be able to take more... but Islam
became a Mike Tyson... *******... take one more hit!
what you're seeing now is what's called
the paradox of treating democracy as Utopia,
democracy isn't Utopia (Churchill said)...
but this is the unravelling, treat democracy as
the sole expression of utopia and then watch when
something alien hits it... one smack and you're out...
treating democracy as utopian politics is false,
too many self interests and too much bureaucracy;
or i can example my father for you...
two Lithuanian labourers employed by a company
****** up his drill... they weren't electrocuted
(the drill was wet), because if they were
the effect of electrocution would be like that of
an electron cloud the glue of keeping the proton
and neutron nucleus intact, the thing electrocuting
would be like a crocodile's jaw snap, you wouldn't
be able to let go... instead they became Lithuanian
vandals... smashed the thing... and what about
being self-employed and having his wages cut
once in a while? self-employment is the norm in western
societies... because the boss of BHS took a big fat
pay-cheque for a yacht with Kate Moss on it
while employee pensions went down the drain or
into Hawking's theory of black holes colliding...
zero hour contracts to match up the statistics...
western powers are mad to export their ideals...
i wouldn't trust them with a water-pistol,
and you know why? they'd just want an Iraqi to
wear Nike trainers and eat a Big Mac.

You either know me, or you don’t.
I’m your best friend, and worst enemy.
I’m bought, sold (new and old),
sought, found, and tossed around.
I get twisted and turned,
mimicked and gimmicked.
I lead you here, I lead you there,
I lead you just about anywhere.
I whisper in your ear, and boom across the sky,
feeding off echoes, savoring my cry.
I’m overlooked and undercooked—
raw as sushi just unhooked.
I’m encrypted and coded into complex clues,
hidden in books and the daily news.
I’m hacked, chewed, shredded and burned,
analyzed and synthesized at every turn.
I’m stronger than ever and growing each day,
collecting, connecting, and creating the way.
Information’s the name, and if life’s a game,
then I’m one slick player with zero shame.

Pixelated bitmap e-mares



Digitized be mementos cached



Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware



Transfers recurrent electric draughts







The bitrate of virtual seduction



Intrusively hacks my bones



Taste be my lips of data eruption



Elicited from her tone







Physique a stimulating software



Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks



A gem society deemed quite rare



Though she possessed a vibrant bark





Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle



'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust



She moans in esoteric riddles



Keen I decode them whilst I ******





Pizazz eclipsing our veins



A billion megabytes colliding



Satiated we crash free of rein



Unforeseen servers uniting

© 2012 (All rights reserved)





This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary



The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com

.

Here in dense darkness, alone I sit,
and crave for the caressing rays
of thy gentle light, nowhere near.
Out side the balcony netted to
keep the deviant doves away
the city of million lights speaks
in a jumble of numerous sounds.
like my heavy heart, the overcast sky
is a silent observer, holding light back.

The silence within me kept deepening,
every little light in this city night has
a story to tell, I perk up my ears to hear.
Every skyscraper silently exchange
encrypted message of light of many kind,
to one another, written on darkness.

"I don't trust the night,
she is a cheat" says one
The other replies, "Oh! the night
her luxurious dark hair heals"
Within the discordant sounds
what light etch on the night air has
love and hate, sin and redemption.
Neon pauses create a rhythm,
the musical river flows on.
Sitting here inside the cocoon,
I did spin myself and inhabit,
I think I see you there in the distant
blue light, which you yourself embraced

Will you be ever dreaming about my lonely plight,
when you dive deeper in to your dark night?

Ones and Zeros
In the online digital world
Every boy and every girl
Are villains and heroes
Who knows which?
Son a of a *****
 
The truth is lies
Wrapped up in disguise
We want to believe
Electronic love we receive
Is not there to deceive
The flirting
The sexting
The online molexting
**** pic rejecting
 
Encrypted ascii code
Sent through internet nodes
Wireless whispers transmitted
Thoughts of endearment committed
Fact are conveniently omitted
Lies are ruthlessly submitted
 
Straight jacket
Packet hackers
Hijacking a loving heart
Holding it ransom is their art
Scourge of the community
Harassing
Surpassing
Any level of dignity
 
Players and haters
And the masturbators
The downright crazies
Acting like timid daisies
The cheaters
Defeaters
And quite possibly
Wife beaters
 
The losers
The boozers
Mentally abusers
The popular sexter
Who may not be a her
Quite possibly a guy
But will vehemently deny
 
The whiner
Data miner
The ******* seeking minor
The scammer
The Christian Damner
Super **** grammar
All thrown in together
With the digital picture collector
 
And still we’re looking all around
For love to be found
In a world of made believe
That anonymously deceives
We are ones seeking zeroes
Running into villains dressed up as heroes
 
Hearts shredded and deleted
Retreating and defeated
Yet somehow we try again
Hoping for something less than pain
We are all a little bit insane
Playing the online dating game
One’s and Zero’s

To the planet called Earth
And its so called overseers:
We are your distant neighbor
From a far-flung star
A thousand times greater than yours.

We don't come in peace.
Certainly, you may think
That your intergalactic
Space bound expeditions
Got us all figured out.

Your futile exploits
Gave you but an idea
That might turn out to be
A million light years away
From such a prized truth.

But we know everything
About your infant planet.
Your warm-blooded race
The silly thing you call Science
And your many weakness.

We have been here all along
Since the ancient times.
Your ancestors offered megaliths
And long tried to build relations.
But we were never pleased.

Your intelligence, though much inferior
Made us believe you are prepared enough
To decode encrypted messages on crop circles.
But even so with your best technology
You have failed us once again.

Humans! Take heed to the signs
And the warnings of our coming.
We have waited long enough
And gave you time to hone your potential
Only to find you stuck in your own maze.

You call us aliens, those big headed monsters
That you amuse yourself  in your movies.
But you are the strangest kind of life
That our probes have ever studied.
Your saga shall be recorded well.

souls encrypted in
nighttime sun now revealing
black pages that burned

Whispers of the wind
Were drawn on the sky
Of the bitter mind you left.

Words of the swing
Were drawn on the lie
Of the sinner and his theft.

Poems of the lost
Were encrypted on the smiles
Of the blackest mind,
The inconsolable, misguided ghost.

Lyrics of the raws
Were sung in an old, crumbled swing
Forgotten in a pencil's graphite,
The Creator of the whispery wind.

A whole story was scattered
Like sand's little grains.
Each word was shattered
Until whispers have lost their shadow
A rememberance of us in a fabled meadow,
A pencil on plain paper,
It's all that remains.

Five months ago we met,
On a Sunday morning.
That day my heart was set
I loved you since that moment

Before I left that very place
I wrote a special letter
A secret admirer was my case
But when you knew my identity, that I was your lover, you didn't go away

January thirty-first I sent you a poem for your birthday
The first poem I ever sent you
It took me more than a hundred miles to give it to you
But it was worth it, I made you smile
And that every detail did fit

February fourteenth of the present year
I greeted you with a great smile
And no fear,
I sent you my second poem
You thanked me for it
And that was enough to make me smile

But there came a day
You told me that it is about time to end it
That we have to pave away
And it is about to that for good

I was left out
With a melancholic feeling
Having a great doubt
About moving on easily

There were times
When I suddenly become nostalgic
Thinking of the glorious past
Remembering the memories that would last

People say I should start moving on
It is so hard
That I can't seem to figure how to
But if I won't move on
Would I be like this for the rest of my life

The sad story that was set aside
The encrypted past that no one could decode
The love that would never collide
And the heart that could not be revived

Life does go on
And I should cope with it
But until I have accepted
The fact of moving on
I'll be in this sad story of my time

She’s a lost soul
Encrypted in kryptonite
Society never failed to lie to her
She was born perfect
But the world just didn’t see it
So day by day
Society would wash the real her away
And the tragedy was
Society’s lost soul was itself
In depth in destruction and insecurity
Society killed itself
For everyone knew
Society was just a bluff

​
They tell me that I'm a good poet
That I have a way with words.
They tell me that I can make the simplest things sound beautiful.
That I can make a flower bloom
Just by stringing 26 letters of the alphabet into a sentence.

They tell me that I'm complex.
That they have to read between the lines just to figure me out.
They tell me that I make the easiest things complicated
That I can turn my McDonald's order into rocket science.

They tell me this
They tell me that
They. They. They.
But you,
Oh baby, you,
You didn't tell me anything.
You never felt the need to.
You accepted me.
Flaws and all.

You accepted the way I made gardens grow all around us,
You told me you loved the way I turned the carpet into our personal meadow.
You accepted the way I ordered my mcchicken burger
Even if it took forever for them to understand my words.
You showed me that it was okay to be me,
To be unique.
To be able to turn the abc's into rocket science,
The 1,2,3's into the tip of the iceberg
To be surrounded by metaphors and little jigsaw puzzles that everyone thinks they can figure out
But when they get frustrated they leave, their mood gone south.
But you stayed.
Patient.

To this day I can't get the courage to thank you,
I've tried
God knows I have
But this,
This is my final attempt.
No metaphors,
No similes,
Just me.

So thank you baby,
My McDonald's order will forever remain encrypted
And my words,
Complicated.
But us...
We're asymptotes.
Destined to come so very close,
But never intersecting

unlike the book of Enoch's proposition, i deem fallen "stars" (we all know they meteors, but religious language loves metaphors) as disgraced saints, given there's so many of them they can sometimes outnumber angels, so yeah, in reverse of religious blah i deem fallen stars are disgraced saints, rather than disgraced angels.

and upon having written the words that i had,
i felt a sharp indentation on my right hand,
as if someone was pressing a sharpened
avocado seed into it, that i knew was the thumb
of my guardian - there was a reason why
i masturbated prior to puberty aged 8,
that i might know the difference in the ways
it might be taught: circumcision and
religious obedience, and the non-circumcised
with their indolence and hedonism threshold -
or how to marry the monotheistic man
with the man of no theistic concerns -
who came later than the circumcised woman -
who in stories of a Prince f Egypt was beautified
in her agony: as passing the fruit to man -
from paranoid despots of Egypt eager to keep
a harem and let her not simply enjoy the company
of other men, but of greater peril from these despots,
that she could wield a greater satisfaction
from her own hand than his excavation of power -
never before was this story told in the crude manner
it deserved - the shame on poetry, and the subsequent
undermining of poetry! to every, EVER poet out there
readying himself for a renewed reinterpretation
of his horrid book, a word of caution: you will not
gain any other technique from this, no pun-joke,
this is metaphor versus imagery, after all imagery
deciphers metaphor, the ideogram of meaning,
thank god the Chinese were allowed to sustain their ideogram,
otherwise using these skeletons i'd never achieve
a worthy playing field, no table tennis table, no
squash cube, no tennis court, no football pitch...
given the survival of the Chinese ideogram i can climb
a tier higher from what's encrypted,
i can, thanks to the Chinese ideogram morph words
above the tier of sounds, above the tier of grammatical
categorisation that are governed by time / timing, and
enter the only realistic realm necessary, the poetic:
to treat "holy" but subsequently metaphorical texts
for a revision changing metaphor (hallucinatory images)
into imagery (the times when certain tools were
anticipated, of that said: Galileo and the telescope
and the *oculus rufus of Jupiter
it's appropriate karma and the dishonouring philosophy's
feeling of superiority that merely matches them with
Koranic scribbles that poets finally can box the other
strand of language use into oblivion...
poetry and the freedoms to suffice its continuation...
true via a real example: the "prince" of philosophers,
no other than Spinoza, polishing lenses,
as every philosopher after him, sharpening the meaning
of words, trying to eradicate Thesaurus Rex from
human existence, trying to coagulate synonyms into
a single meaning, i.e. prescribing words
of fluidity and subsequent poly-elasticity a mono-usage,
their prize lost, their dittoing of up-kept credentials,
their dittoing but lack of approximation ~******* up /
or simply buckling under the strain...
sharpening of the eye, they mistook killing off poetry
but by doing so, they encouraged Sophistry -
the art of rhetoric... poets never spoke to convince people,
they spoke to entertain people, why are these
apes running the mental life of people?! never put
your eggs in one basket... the poets were condensed into
the same cauldron as the Sophists, even though
poets preferred to speak from a page or the prior written
than from the heart of a deceiving others...
at the time of Spinoza doubt was still a considerable evil,
only when denial emerged were people finally considered
easy-zoological specimens of study: a doubtful faith
is a faith non-the-less, wavering faith, but at least
not an offshoot of denial, which only breeds bad faith
(as Sartre described) and ends up being a confession in
a *******'s bedroom by some duke of *****-nilly.
in the end, all i have to say is: the preliminary poem
always aids your sober affairs that later becoming drinking
affairs: that the Chinese ideogram resilience allowed
us to translate "holy" texts of pure metaphor into
pure imagery, and create the paradigm of desecration
justified like a Mongol in Baghdad...
where the true Golgotha is situated -
that poets aren't sophists, and that by attacking
poets, philosophers created by far the more zealous
version of criticising poetry: a Surat in the Koran
and the current flowering of unnerved sophistry in
politics: not that much a case of speaking with a persuasive
manner, but a way of speaking toward a persuasive
lie that doesn't endanger the status quo.
so what saves modern poetry from despair and dodo?
the Chinese ideogram, thanks to the Chinese ideogram
(working from the book of Genesis) i can pass an object in
the form of metaphor (apple) via jingzi / mirror
and get imagery back (*******) - only because
i am passing one skeletal object of spelled simplicity
into another object of akin spelled simplicity
via something resembling carpals-metacarpals-phalanges
(the wrist) - as the title suggests: wrist-mirror -
only thanks to the Chinese up-keeping of their ideogram
i can transform metaphors into imagery,
the fruit of knowledge into ******* -
or puns into jokes;
this is why i'd only take two books with me to the grave,
Ezra's Cantos and Russell's history of western society:
it's because of them that i get to keep
the desired momentum.

The pine tree that stands on the outskirts of the pasture
Swaying in time with the wind as if dancing to an encrypted tune
Has been my good friend and conspirator for many years

My mom forbids me from climbing the pine’s frail branches
The wood appears so strong but can crack without a moment’s notice
I disregard her order on occasion and scale up the tree
Which consequently results in injuries that last for days

The pine tree, the one companion I can count on to never argue, complain, or disagree
Has for quite a long time allowed my siblings, cousins, and I
To scamper up and down her branches
Much like crazed squirrels

I trust her with my secrets
This tree, which tastes so strongly of an unusual combination
Of freedom and danger
Allows me to climb quickly and quietly
So that I am unseen by parents or tattletales
Up to the highest point I can, where I hug her warm, rough trunk
Take in the scent of minty needles and warm Minnesota summers
Watch the wandering cars fly past on the endless trail of asphalt that is the highway
And feel the soft breeze that is nonexistent twenty feet below

I’ve claimed the pine tree as my own
Up in her branches I feel brave and it’s almost as if I can feel
Something like happiness emanating from inside her
I often go to her to escape heated arguments or to taste the inspiration she gives me
When I have a notebook and pen in hand

My pine tree will always understand me
And this is why I love her
Just like me, she has a dark sense of humor
And occasionally
SNAP!
Then, like always, I pick myself up, brush myself off
Look up at yet another broken branch
And climb to the top once again
My favorite place in the world
Mostly because I’m not allowed to be there

i don't see myself
loving
any other man but you
so i let the stars align
to take me as soon
as i am forty for
you
desire not of me

41 and alone
51 and alone
61 and alone
i do not want to grow old alone

i foresee myself growing old alone
so i ask the stars to take me when i am forty
or younger

my dust to be encrypted
when you close your eyes at night
tells you that

i could've grown old with you

you are too late
you are too late

"Aren't you now tired of that green?
different from the zeitgeist once was
the ****** pulsation existed all along with me!
I can see it in the movement  of yours
when I  deep kiss you, not there, you are!
it's too long, our liaison, my love listen,
now it's time for a change, haven't you
seen the clouds in quick changing formations?
Yes, rest you need and a period of leisure
would do you good.You have to don a hue
to suit to to the mood, and yellow it is"
The setting sun,languidly to the leaf said aloud.
She felt the relief, she unhurriedly received
his words  purple tinted.pointing the direction.

The mountain wind, when the leaf  was green,
an intense lover, moved her,always.
A leaf callow and green in the wind,
passion personified, during the gale she was
the aggressive partner, demanding more,
"You are hanging here for long,on this branch,
knowing all, now time to let go, hear the music
permeating through dust and clouds and lives
transform yourself, you have danced enough
with me here, change pace, let go, begin
a journey new and find, what the cosmic hum
tells to every single cell, and what's in the end,
get ready to take newer forms from now on my love"

Wind took her by hand and she let go every thing
and naked to the soul, she jumped in to the deep below,
a valley, in ferment, flowers, fruits and leaves
in abundance, stood with bated breath,
beckoning, welcoming, cheering the fallen leaf,
the last dance it was,with the wind and sun,
in whispers the wanton wind told her" time to go,
feel light and explore, discover the secrets still left"

Earth, red and fertile was much pleased, smiled at her,
"Come down beloved, here I lie in wait, impatient,
this is your bed, not a minute late you are, here
as before in the appointed hour,you are aware
at any time you have to end up as the salt of the earth,
you'll love it here as much you did on a flowering branch,
bit by bit like the fragments of a cloud in blue sky,
you will become one with me; the fecund muddy earth,
new seeds with a vision encrypted inside will fall on you
get nourished by what your love donates and would sprout.

Yesterday murmured within the earshot of today:
The past has posted  an encrypted message
on your wall, decipher it, take a careful turn,
the road is slippery, life is short.

Poetry is for those who know that emotion
Is encrypted within the words spoken
Poetry is for the curious, and the mysterious
Although most Poets are true, they’re irrepressibly mischievous  
So open your mind before you open eyes
For this art often wears a bashful disguise

*Ink is *****, mixed with scarlet love
Words are jagged, and poetry is blood

Ink, encrypted into my skin.
The skin of life, the feel of permanence.
A subtle radiance of black art speaks to me,
comforts me,
while nestles into the truth of my existence.
Life,
speaking to me,
through a tiny script delicately carved,
into the time-lapse of light.

12/17/2015
z.r.w.

Her hands are a mystery
If you look at them, you see his light
But if you look into them, you feel a consciousness of their own.

Their spirits embrace at a single moment
and all Time and all Trees pray
for them.

But the peach trees stand still; silent
They witness the reincarnation of his dreams
Chaos, absolute seedless chaos
A peach drops and dies.

In the darkness, the peach is unseen
Only eyes question death
Flooding, flooding, flooding
Only twelve million answers

Ravenous stars light the sky
by hunger for only their answer
But enlightenment is encrypted
in Latin and all the languages
of the world.
And her conscience is full and sleeps.

Who’s to blame her?
A vision of red may only wander
And wonder she is.
In China, dragons dance to their unheard
secret.

Oh, but the owls know.
Within their ocean of a soul
bathe the greatest whales
eating oranges.
They grow oranges in their minds
to keep the sun jealous.

Zealously, the gods blow
new passion every morning
Her suprasternal notch ignites
His lips bloom twelve roses
And all clocks stop, and fly

Yet their fusion reeks
Confusion lasting a few weeks
and a painting
A painting of stones born
by their bedside every time they
hug; free

Free love ceases to be a myth
It blinds an entire universe
into entropy for eternity

Her magic, as free, is trapped
in books and lost music
His breath, as lost, cradles
every word
The elephants walk through mirrors
into her

Her blue shirt falls apart
A heart beat crying, squanders
Every button, hiding the moon
A pomegranate seed as red as her vision

Her hands are a mystery
If you touch them, you
feel him, in all sadness and grace
You journey into space.

when i cordoned you off
with Gorilla Tape and lilac vine
once i was done attaching encrypted files
of pearls upon that sultry salt of your inner-thighs
once i’d borrowed bonds
off my favorite banker’s portfolio
so i could waste myself in their earned interest
ratios
of blood bourne by centuries of
hapless gathering oppression
so i could use them in mosaics of swollen sand
that i could lay
like sea-glass shards under your
ebbing feet as useless parchments
i swallowed you in all your swollen spasms of fragile oblivion
until that bottom of this tongue lept amidst surfacing juices
obliterating and obligating all that ever decayed amidst obelisks
your whispers
(hatched from your
breathy endorphins)
shook me into
mine own
desperate shudders
astride our gathering humidity
and i gathered in
your needle-nosed
plier
eyes
-rust encrusted grey
incisors-
wrought from melted andirons
mixed with slug
trodden
soils
of hinterlands i was
never
to penetrate
as if i ever slammed
you
with yore spinning flails
into night’s emerging chasm
of charcoal sprinkled
with inner-orange peels
and their attempts toward
all that is illuminating, wistful, brief, and
precious—

i am your son, i am birthed from your sal i vations. i am twisting, still, amidst these rudiments of brine...

From deep within the swirling water her pressence came to me,
I embraced her in my arms to feel her eternal warmth,
Her wisdom limitless in the silence of the water,
Her majestic flames encrypted my body,
I can feel the roots of eternity setting in,
Her entity as cold as the night,
Without her we would die,
The Goddess is our mother,
The Goddess is all around us,
The Earth is our mother.

Legend in chalk, legend talks, legend squawks, legend walks. Legend’s fate of the great encrypted, scripted or unscripted. The enchantment and endowment of maybes. Legend beckons some determined or predestined babies! Egos aglow, from awesome heroes, Negroes, Neros and zeros of long ago. Clever blowing, growing, knowing and showing wind. There is where legends begin. Doubted and shouted at by the rest! We endeavor and are forever known and shown as the best.

In the sapphire of the night
Secrets hide in shadows
Untouched by the mortal fight
They come to taunt
A rose on the shoulder
Ivy on the wrist
The brazen fools come calling
Into the frigid mist
Eyes of emerald green
Hair auburn sleek
The eyes pierce the soul
Into the mind they peek
Slender fingers dance
Making knives of feathers
Encrypted words prance
Shimmering in the light
The distance of the fall
Does nothing to the raven
Amidst a mirage of serpents
The shattered truth is taken
Writhing in the tides
Trying to dodge the spears
Flaunting hidden bravery
Masking burnt tears
Trying to forget the shock
Trying to forget the need
Acting like you're powerless
Desperate to ignore the plead
Dreams frozen in lava
Elegance disappears
Release the hidden tiger
Slip into the fears
Dare to steal the gremlin
Dare the beat the drum
Dare to set them trembling
Dare to mock the sun

They approached self-corrections with the necromancies of Leiak, they took the seven candelabra or Polyélaios, and the seven chalices or Diskopótira, immediate to the bags of the Fasmatémporos or breadbaskets, the crimes were archaically repositioned in this Mataki tablecloth enchanted by Leiak, the sin was self-correcting in the parallel line of the slip, doubly marked as a sin of omission, and a concessionary violation of the desire to correct oneself in the completely empty desert, holding hands with wax from the Kerós spell candelabrum or wax made by Aristeo's bees, for the pleasure of the avatars of presence in this inaugural banquet, for libations that spilled part of the lipoids of the Gethsemane bees, along with those of Aristeo to clean the ground mixed with parasitic spiders that ****** the milk that fell from their rituals. When night fell from the third dream, the Mataki was wrinkled by thousands of knots of arachnid legs, which mated with the spider's trochanter, bathed in milk and Corinthian wine. The precautions did not wake them up from the third dream, when they had just broken bread and made the libation for the first time with jugs that glowed superimposed on the icons of the Attic vessels, here is the lavish clothing of the entomological world under thousands of spiders overloaded in the Mataki, and this overloaded on the oak inn that supported it, towards the entire Tagmati in conformation of a model of hoplite spiders, which would gradually transform into specialized units, formed by the precautionary of Aristeo's bees when balancing the unevenness of the tables, Attaching them to the beards depicted in the icons of the vessels, where they saw these images of the future and the past with the Tagmati with Byzantine expressions of Constantine V, and with Philip II providing funding for the new military uniform of the hoplites, completely financed by the coffers Greeks, naming him hegemon of Amphibiousness, after Philip entered central Greece winning at bat Alla de Queronea (338 BC) to the Thebans and Athenians allies, here seven thousand of the fallen Athenian and Theban allies, graced the figure of Demosthenes, for new vessels encrypted with iconic images of Philip "Lover of the Steeds" where a spear crosses hearts in the offspring of his horses, and in his heart too, wronged by the page Pausanias de Oréstide as a royal guard.

Gradually the table was made with more guests represented in the numismatics that ran through the hindrance of the cornucopia, and in the majolica that classified the blood represented right there, on free floors to self-correct for the entire ****** campaign executed by Filipo, and his corrupt but unifying mission to dissuade providential enemies, unworthy to sit at the historical table of the Amphibian, remembered in these vessels, on top of the Mataki that absorbed liters and liters per second the blood, which was drained by the description that was made of the hoplite representatives, which for the first time sat next to the close history of a hegemon. The Sibyls arrived commanded by the Delphic Herophilus, they were served wine of conjectured reverse blood of the Mataki, but from the ground preceded the greatest libation on spring propitiation equipment, which made ties of amnesty where everything reigned for self-correction of the brutality of the symposia, where nothing did. take into account what would happen with the stipend of Vernarth, who still watched delightedly as more guests soared from the wind tunnel of the Profitis Ilias that expelled them.
The ashamed gods hid behind the chandeliers that shone with the ****** waxes of Aristeo, and the polis that made the grape harvest of Sponde, drinking the effluvia of Persephone in the meeting of the songs with her mother, pouring out the earthy gynoecium that awaits the ceremonial, before only those who observe and self-correct. Dew-water poured down from Aegean swells with gorges plagued by a voracious and invasive rain of flavonoid metabolites; of the plants that poured down the gorge that Demeter broke into, on flat and monumental glasses so that all those who arrived with dexterous fists, could give rise to the mixed drink of libation with essences of the sleet turned into the blood for the chalices on the table together al Mataki, who was beginning to replenish himself with the pure essence of necromancy, to begin with, the suppressions of evil eyes, on the hoplites that began to horde them and protect them from a certain visual intoxication.

April 10, 2019

Come a day, reason peeks around the corner,
Wisdom spots the whole idea,
nothing hidden around
the edge,
she winks back.

The story is there
was this kid,

he has these uni-
que memories
odd
memes,
or easers of toils,
heartfelt
reward for sweated blood

proverbial guiding
memories
resting easy in the shadows

he sends songs soaring
some when
Dams break, knowns burst
thru bubbles in jeopardy
new f-izzy izy knots
loose the lowest layer of liege
let go
loosen
free. all for allegiance,
reciprocal give and take with no control
given to any lacking self
controlership

idle words redeemed by chance
take up the dance,
least friction
desidare
aitia
gentle
ease of flow, over under, around
, through, if it comes to that,

any which way ye find,
wind way,
Pollen Way,
River way, rolling
rocky mountain way

it was noised abroad, in the hill country.
We all knew.

Reason come with me,
we have heard we must war

some more,
we are feeling
fused with metal minded

souls set to unleash some
monster idea thing-ysdril-
whoops cyd-drethal
con-tributary
mythic
influence,
twist ing side
ways to es
scape the scoffer
from the
Welsh brig… abrupt

scene shift
like a real life movie

encrypted Welsh wonder words

the professors called thunderwords and
allowed only those umlauted
u prounouncers to speak

with proper compre
hensions,
you get that? Ubermenschken?

Controllership. that idea.
think what controllership would be,
if it were yours being weighed.

The Welsh had a word for that.
goruchwylwriaeth.

How was such a word lost?

How can we teach our kids
controllership when our nation
has no national tongue able

to roll wisdom into reasonless reality,
goruchwylwriaeth,

it's magic, if magi means much to you.

---
Ordovician rules. If I had a hammer.

Ord'vicians, hammer warriors,

hammering out justice all over this land,
as the bombs were falling,

for God's sake. Sake itself is assumed to have
meant "cause",
cause being reason, aition or aitia.
Reasonable reasonibility to
just ify now, as real.

So, since we agree,
we know right, when we taste it, or

do we take a chance on better, a bit more
than half the times?

Judge the controlership system.
What determines a good controller?

when can I assume you consider me no evil? Wordwise, id est.
assume (v.)
early 15c., "to arrogate, take upon oneself," from Latin assumere, adsumere "to take up, take to oneself, take besides, obtain in addition," from ad "to, toward, up to" (see ad-) + sumere "to take," from sub "under" (see sub-) + emere "to take," from PIE root em- "to take, distribute."
Meaning "to suppose, to take for granted without proof as the basis of argument" is first recorded 1590s; that of "to take or put on fictitiously" (an appearance, etc.) is from c. 1600. Related: Assumed; assuming. Early past participle was assumpt. In rhetorical usage, assume expresses what the assumer postulates, often as a confessed hypothesis; presume expresses what the presumer really believes. Middle English also had assumpten "to receive up into heaven" (especially of the ****** Mary), from the Latin past participle.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=assume>

(that which causes, which is not prophaseis)

Hey, did you ever notice how the stars shine
when you're not around?
How the wind blows—
encrypted with notes of your lies.
Pluck the string and give in.
The pollen on my nose is such a sin.

You call her name, that star of yours,
but before long she'll burn out,
don't you know?
The seed we planted, you refused to sow.

The spit and spatter of the faucet
leaves me wondering.
Comb the gel out of your hair,
and rub the burning lipstick off of your neck.
Lie down, close your eyes, and dream of this wreck.

Thunder calls as the clouds roll in.
Creak, tap, creak, tap.
Soon you'll be in Alaska—
out of sight, out of grasp—
way too far from here.
Reflection reveals fear.

River currents and broken promises.
Autumn's red leaves kiss the ground.
A bark, a neigh, a quack, a ribbit—
all the same.
The branches of tomorrow have become
weak, limp, lame.

You know, they don't shine for you anymore.
You came on stiff and strong—
only to let them down.
But as time calls and the future whispers,
memories of you will be yesterday's news.
As unimportant as a finite bruise.

It felt as though her body was an ocean, and despite her petite size, she held the power of a thousand men. Sometimes it would wash over your own body so peacefully, so daintily, you could never be sure if you had felt it at all. You could never be sure she had ever really been there at all. The only evidence that remained of her presence was the tingling feeling you always felt after she had left. Always. Besides that there was nothing, as a being so seemingly magical as herself would leave you in a daze, a daydream, wishing she might return, but you could never be sure of that, either. She left you feeling cleansed, renewed, like the world could never hurt you or taint you again. Almost as though each and every drop of water on the planet had submerged you, with no intention of letting you free. But did you even want to escape? Of course not.

Sometimes she was too much to handle, a tidal wave of fury and rage and angst, but mostly compassion. She felt empathy towards all the souls she encountered and would love every living creature with a heart so large I wasn’t sure it could fit inside her tiny ribcage. The force of the waves she threw upon you were too much to withstand, and she would send the breath from your lungs and leave stars in your eyes and a feeling of disorientation. You felt euphoric, a unique kind of high that no chemically encrypted drug could ever bring you close to. And you felt the comedown too. You felt it stronger than a drug induced comedown could ever force. You missed her with every aching bone in your body and your heart felt like it was a time bomb set to explode, triggered by her.

She would always take your breath away. She removed the air from your lungs and replaced it with her own. Your breaths, she fashioned into words. Words of love, and romance, and wisdom. Words of lust. The things she desired most but would never be attainable from other beings so simplistic in comparison. Nobody ever really asked why she did this, but nobody ever really wanted to. The curiosity sent you to madness at night, spending each and every darkened hour awake, with questions that felt as though they burnt holes in your brain. Nobody ever wanted to ask her. They were curious, yes. But the fear of becoming the moon to the sea and driving in the tidal waves outweighed the yearning for knowledge. This is rare within humankind, as the thirst for knowledge is unstoppable. Always wanting more.
More, more, more.
She had control over us, and we didn’t mind one bit.

I put to rest my spirit and let it fall asleep
and into dreams I stepped with ease, my life began to seep
passing through my fingers like water through a net
I felt it slip away from me and gradually forget
as memories became me, I travelled further on
and distance seemed to hide itself so I could be its pawn
destination: nowhere, relative to lost
kept inside a journal inked with all the paths I crossed
I find myself a corner, a quiet place to read
and let the words turn every page by sprouting from their seed
my journey hasn't ended, forever it will last
but I know my encrypted map is locked within my past
awakened from my slumber, I take up what is mine
the body I was covered in for purposes divine
I'm telling you my story, the only thing I know
a testimony brought to life by every single 'no'