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Devyn Batchelder Jul 2012
Goodnight.                                                                                                      
The evening has arrived and the Sun has become weary                                                            
Goodnight                                                       ­                                                 
The stars have come to reclaim the deepest blue                                                             ­             
Speckling across the dark wide blanket of the cosmos                                                           ­           
Goodnight                                                       ­                                                   
The daylight has faded and your energy has been taxed                                                            ­      
Perhaps it was a productive day....                                                          ­                                          
                      ­                                    perhaps not
But the evening calls and the night follows                                                          ­                              
The mysticism and superstition is heralded by cricket calls                                                            ­  
Reality becomes enervated  now, rest your head on the pillow.                                                        
Nirvana inside of the null............................                                 ­                                                         
Finally­, Goodnight.
Hannah Mary Feb 2015
arms clasped around your knees
while your eyes overflow with dysphoria
and spilling those things called tears.

you begin to wonder when the walls started to tower over you
while kept under those warm things called blankets,
the only things that kept you warm
while your heart was frozen in time that had elapsed

these towering walls
seem to be looking down upon me
and they tell me I am enervated
as I am limp under those blankets,
the only things that are competent to providing me warmth,
as my heart cannot.
Sourodeep Nov 2016
~~~~
Mind has grown
facing challenges
of others and my own.
Happiness diffuses
through the smoke
and peace refuses to
reside within me.
I have lived less, to
others it may seem
but my body is tired
by just the mid day
sun's scorching beam.
Where is the cool evening
I scream and scream
for I want this body
to take rest and breath.
Waiting for my lovely night
when I can smile and
be lost in sweet dreams.
~~~~
Nyx
I am wrapped in her algid arms.
I am lost in her evocative glare.
I stand, environed by the Keres,
Those dilapidated demons.

Azrael, my craven shadow, clings
To me as a vulture stalks its prey.
Thanatos does each step possess
Forward into this acidulous air.

Fissured masks release languid screams
That fall upon pallid faces that have
Long since wilted in her Stygian womb.
Enervated laughs drone in mangy ears.

I stand on the periphery of this
Asphyxiating cistern. I ambulate
Across this sable field that shall
Become the executioner’s blade.
wordvango Sep 2014
Every day I reveal
I give a little more
something special, so real to life
a different side of life
those pieces of me no one can steal
every night I'm where it takes me
to where I find that part of me
that needs no excuses
nothing to change
nothing to add to
But what if it isn't the truth? What if I am a product of fear? When I look at my keyboard, I remember things I cannot say aloud. That is the darkness.
nothing to subtract
the fairy of all things sharp and dangerous.
a day in the sun a light
That casts no shadow,
Pushing through all darkness
To reveal the only truth
a smackeral here,
a smidgen there
i stitch into the weave
as my truth
as i can bare,
leaving me naked
and bereft
but as a milliner of words
so fine
I stitch together a tapestry
of twine
upon a silken bed of shadow
the words, they matter
on the morrow
Twisted threads of golden thought
weaves crimson tears
that taught
the one that orates
as they weave
leaves a pattern
that can't deceive
cleft, my palette
of words, sacred,
alone but not forsaken-
created, awakened and tasted
and i stop for a while
to taste the silence between words
the echoes of my steps
roaming inside a dream
Chinese boxes with corners that
domino like the seals
of envelopes, they
stick to sticky
seals of words,
telling of straw earth.
sinkhole, the word frightened me as a child
even now I tread lightly
allaying the inevitable
i tread lightly, lightly... allaying
the inevitable
babble of...
"lustful gushing
of wordlove
that cascades
from my brain
enervated, regenerated
obligated
to explain
the gears
and cogs
of this
clockwork world
write....again
and again
the never ending
refrain
oh listen to the silence
listen
between the words
from
the death of one breath;
to
the birth of the next
I wish to make a poem  of community involvement. I have started it with the first four words. It is an experiment to see what may be created by many minds, many contributions. To add to this poem, place your words you wish to add in Quotations  in a comment . All contributions will be added in sequence. All will be added, nothing deleted. Help if you can. Let us see what many might create.

10/12/2014
Now I wish to acknowledge all who contributed in order:

I wish to acknowledge all the authors who contributed to Community poem. In order of contribution:

Ana Sophia
Venusoul 7
Vicki
wolf spirit aka quinfinn
Aussi Air
robert martin
Cheryl love
aivustianumus
Tryst
lizany
betterdays
Helen
r
irinia
Courtney Pruitt
patty m
betterdays
robert martin
Derick Smith
Saul Makabim Nov 2014
The hand that once held
such divine power
trembles like a willow branch
weighed down by ice
and battered
by a rude gale
Pale skin
sun deprived
Only ever caressed
by the light of the moon
Have you seen the circles
underneath your eyes
Its no suprise
you threw away all your mirrors
so long ago.
Lux Capacitor Apr 2015
One open can of
half empty **** water
popped the night before
for a palm of pills,
codeine and HRT
chased with Kamchatka 8-0
she collapses in bed
with hope in her head,
belly full.

Morning comes, her will is gone, she stumbles blind
to root her elbows at the window sill, still groggy
from the high of nighttime.
Noon comes and the clock stops, it's a road block
setup at the overpass and by the time
transference makes sense she's
spent her energy just shifting.

In place, enervated. A mistake.
A husk built of guilt and bone.
In a closed room full of blood and *****,
alone. Atone.
In place, enervated,
elbows at the window sill.
Like a stroke of genius,
of just plain blind luck
rising from the jungle floor,
the majestic rubble of the Maya calls,
at once the founder and judge of all Time.

First as the serpent whose plumes turn to wings,
then as the eagle boldly eyeing its prey,
and en fin! as the jaguar, sinewy and sleek,
El Castillo looms
against the hardened, sun-baked sky --
the shifting citadel of Kukulcan,
its shadow splayed across my days.

All of them numbered,
all of them too short,
all of them fading
in the cold
, hard light of distant failure...

Perenially
built and rebuilt,
like the Church,
El Castillo stands
to meet the need of holy obligation,
to meet my need for initiation,
bounded only by the firmament and the underworld,
final triumph of the dead.

And so I stand,
alone upon the sacred causeway --
enervated, unenlightened,
the bitter taste of dust in my mouth.

Until I, too, will be turned
to stone --
the languid chac mool,
sated in sweet repose.

I will drift toward the sunken cenote,
drink deeply from its oasis of evening cool,
where the memory of man and grain and god is sung:

An anthem of order, power and vision,
the great Mayan hymn of meaning.
I will hear, at last, from the porous depths of Yucatan,
what it is to be called human.
I have written a million words and fought a hundred battles.
I have stood against all enemies in all corners of the world.
I have been an agent of destruction and retribution.
I have been a despotic symbol of unyielding authority.
I have been a god of war and slaughter.
But in the face of this new force I am powerless.
I stood against the atom bomb, and bent it to my will.
I broke the tides of imperialism and nationalism, and soon devoured them too, with my insatiable lust.
I have crushed all who have contested against me; no revolution has ever ousted me.
And yet.
In the face of this new force I am powerless.
My atom bomb is enervated.
My armies are decrepit.
My once iron resolution has melted to lackadaisical fancy.
My Tanks, guns, swords and bombs are nothing but flaccid instruments of failed conquest.
Because
For all my inimical *******
I am rendered prostrate before the empyrean power of joy immeasurable.
BAM Mar 2014
she is trying to write
her mind races through topics
through opinions
through objects

her eyes stare blank
at the blinding screen
her fingers hovering
wanting to flow- line into line

she is trying to write
yet there is nothing left
just apathy
no interest

her mind is closing
windows of the soul sleep
fingers lifelessly dangle
she can't write.
Earl Jane Jul 2015


                                              I enfold you closer to me,
                      And let you feel every melody,
That my heart produces.


Suddenly you got enervated,


                            Because of my monotonous euphony.


                                            I wonder why would you feel like that?


          When the only harmony my heart generates,

                 ~> Are the tone of the sweetness of your name,
                                 ~> And the music of your love,
                                                That carries me into the paradise land,
                  Which everyone dreams of?



      I only love you,

                                                 That's why,
                      
                        I will never mix others musical genre,
                Into the rhythm that maintains the circulation,
                                 Of love and felicity,

  
                                                                ­                            Into my life.
  



                            © Earl Jane
                              ♥ E.J.C.S.
Vandana Raman Oct 2011
Towering over the rocky shore,
mentoring the intractable,discordant waves.
Rigid and stubborn,over which the eagles soar
"They" come here for absolution,the murderers,the soothsayers,the knaves.

Tweleve kilometers away from the tower,she watched,
living in sweet sardonic solace,in an ancestral cottage.
how "they" climbed the crumbling earth,body and soul parched,
desperate to be purged,freed from guilt-driven *******.

Ruminating over the storm swept silence,
she loathed man's dependence on belief.
Comatised, mentally enervated in its absence,
The belief commands discipline, our obedience.

Scrambling over the jagged rocks,
she climbed to the base of the dominating column,
A vulture sitting high above,looks down to mock.
the blinding circulating light,an eerie feeling she could not fathom.

Ascending the two hundred and forty eight iron spiral stairs,
as surreal force encompassed her, she instantly felt possessed, her mind awakened by last night's nightmare.
As she stood high above,adjacent to the vultures,
She acknowledged her mind grow vacous,empty , free.
There was something calming or demanding about this structure,
exterminating her inner thoughts and memories,reaching an ******* apogee.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
The young poetess^ writes:

Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.

Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!


The old hoary replies:

Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.

We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.

Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!

Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!

Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.

You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.

We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.

You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!

We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.

Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!

Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
**today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
^The Young Poetess - Helen
SøułSurvivør Jul 2019
I take in the
Taste of prisms
With a tender tongue

Blue,  violet, verdant green
Magenta marvelous
Yellow, mellow light
The flavors of the sun
Shining through crystal
Covering my lips
Cherry red

The Taste Of Prisms
Emerges
Energizes
Enervated inspiration
And the ecru canvas
Comes alive with color!

CREATE!!
I've joined several artist's sites on Facebook and I'm getting very inspired to paint and draw. I want to see my canvas coming alive! Thus this poem...
Ethereal echoes
Emerald seas
Nacarat skies
Misty breeze

Mellifluous is her melody
Majestic every scene
Serenity of Serena
Allure of Ausrine

I tilt my head in ecstasy
My thoughts begin to cease
Sand beneath my hands
Cold, calming waters,
Languidly caress my feet

And like a child running around
And like a child who knows no bound
At the end, is enervated
I lay utterly still,
In her embrace,
Exhausted,
Yet satiated

Satiated by her healing warmth
Satiated by her meliorating touch
Satiated so much,
I wonder,
If my heart could hold so much of love.
wordvango Oct 2014
I want to thank all who contributed, viewed, commented, shared.

Community poem

Every day I reveal
I give a little more
something special, so real to life
a different side of life
those pieces of me no one can steal
every night I'm where it takes me
to where I find that part of me
that needs no excuses
nothing to change
nothing to add to
But what if it isn't the truth? What if I am a product of fear? When I look at my keyboard, I remember things I cannot say aloud. That is the darkness.
nothing to subtract
the fairy of all things sharp and dangerous.
a day in the sun a light
That casts no shadow,
Pushing through all darkness
To reveal the only truth
a smackeral here,
a smidgen there
i stitch into the weave
as my truth
as i can bare,
leaving me naked
and bereft
but as a milliner of words
so fine
I stitch together a tapestry
of twine
upon a silken bed of shadow
the words, they matter
on the morrow
Twisted threads of golden thought
weaves crimson tears
that taught
the one that orates
as they weave
leaves a pattern
that can't deceive
cleft, my palette
of words, sacred,
alone but not forsaken-
created, awakened and tasted
and i stop for a while
to taste the silence between words
the echoes of my steps
roaming inside a dream
Chinese boxes with corners that
domino like the seals
of envelopes, they
stick to sticky
seals of words,
telling of straw earth.
sinkhole, the word frightened me as a child
even now I tread lightly
allaying the inevitable
i tread lightly, lightly... allaying
the inevitable
babble of...
"lustful gushing
of wordlove
that cascades
from my brain
enervated, regenerated
obligated
to explain
the gears
and cogs
of this
clockwork world
write....again
and again
the never ending
refrain
oh listen to the silence
listen
between the words
from
the death of one breath;
to
the birth of the next

I wish to make a poem  of community involvement. I have started it with the first four words. It is an experiment to see what may be created by many minds, many contributions. To add to this poem, place your words you wish to add in Quotations  in a comment . All contributions will be added in sequence. All will be added, nothing deleted. Help if you can. Let us see what many might create.

10/12/2014
Now I wish to acknowledge all who contributed in order:

I wish to acknowledge all the authors who contributed to Community poem. In order of contribution:

Ana Sophia
Venusoul 7
Vicki Bashor
wolf spirit aka quinfinn
Aussi Air
robert martin
Cheryl love
aivustianumus
Tryst
lizany
betterdays
Helen
r
irinia
Courtne­y Pruitt
patty m
betterdays
robert martin
Derick Smith
Kezia Ann Joseph Oct 2014
It happened on one fine morning, as sun peeped into my hostel room
I pulled my sheet over my head and prayed to lengthen night hours
But alarm rang mercilessly ting -tong,ting-tong
Scratching my eyes, stretching my arms as wide as could,
I yawned and woke up to start an eventful day.
I felt enervated and  body ache added to my stagnation.
I did my daily morning routines half heartedly,
as cosiness of bed was seducing me back to it.
I donned in my uniform, ran to the mirror.
I sensed an itching on my back, I touched it with my fingers.
Under- estimating it as a mosquito bite, I turned attention to my hair.
Suddenly I noticed a dew drop on my chest
Curiously I looked up to find any leaking in concrete ceiling
It protruded up here and there, without any order.
I felt like playing "connect -the -dots" during my school days.
I consulted doctor, he diagnosed it as chickenpox
and gave me sick leave along with prescription.
Those who were already immune to this, gave me tips to care.
Rest moved away from me with "respect" and wished  "get well soon"
My father came to pick me from hospital.
I packed my things and got into the car.
On the way he brought me a basket of fruits
and fed my stomach full with advice.
My homecoming was welcomed by my pet dog's bark.
It got annoyed as I didn't pamper her as usual.
I opened windows of my sojourn kingdom.
It endowed me with a feeling of extending my  horizon .
I saw dew drops on leaves, hanging down to fall,
dancing in breeze and sparkling in morning sun light.
I wrote this poem, while i was suffering from chickenpox.....
PK Wakefield Jul 2013
America is ******'
a bit its lips
are

America is
its tongue
the slippery
and sublime

it
so deeply feels
its throat
tight to fill pretty

her eyes
rolling wonderful
the whites
roundishly
enervated pink
with

a bit of sharp
a bit
of
glass
smoke and
pipes

her lipsfull
the meat
of "****"
and

when you
push between their parting
emits
the frailest squeak

but
*** er
the she
wants to
please *** er
the fucc
er lips
the cooly mess
er cheeks
damson stained
and puckering to

kisss
Jo Hummel Sep 2014
**** you and your conscious actions,
eliciting dreary moans from an already enervated alias.
you, who once exhilarated me,
now the cause of my exasperation,
will one day be the most glorious cause
of my most hideous downfall.
can i name your shortcomings, at least?
one, you take too long to make me cry.
two, no one ever told you to be so ******* quintessential.
three, can i hold your hand? no, it is too faultless on its own, i shant sabotage your look.
four, your facade is growing tired. make a new one. i like the expressions that dance on your face.
five, you knit your brows in a way that resembles a calf.
i cannot express more than five-

oh, hell, were those even flaws...?
**** you and your olive flesh
(so smooth, as if ivory)
and your cocoa eyes
and your coffee-stained teeth
and the way you praise God
as if you actually know Her
i could ramble on about you forever
Not Important Feb 2014
Keep pulling the strings,
Harder.
I've grown accustomed
To the painful yanking.

Take my shoulders
And tug them astern.
Back rigid as a board,
So as to never run blissfully.

Heave my head up.
Neck indefinitely stiff.
I'll never be able to gaze
Down at the flowers.

Wrench my lips further.
Cheeks excruciatingly tight.
So that I may amicably smile,
At people I'd rather frown.

Extract my laugh out from within.
Lungs enervated from
Emanating becoming laughs.
Which animate these artificial
Kings and Queens,
When I genuinely desire
To spill their crowns.

Force the tears back from my eyes.
As I stand reduced to a creature
In a frivolous sideshow.

Defeated.
Degraded.
Destroyed.


Master.
I do not despise you.
Neither pity myself.
You cannot dodge inheritance.
You cannot hide from the strings.

For we are born Puppets.
And become the Puppeteers.
lX0st Nov 2018
When my body and soul
No longer entwine
What will become of my spine?

Does it sigh solaced croon
A hymn-silken harpoon
Propelling me
Through
Threshold everlasting?

Or will it crumble by piece
Like moldy blue cheese
Marrow vinaigrette feeds
Famished nerve roots
And dirt
Absorbing lost life,
Fueling the Earth?

Perhaps a doctor
Will pass it along
Loaded syringe,
Silver and mauve
Into flesh as fresh
As death’s final breath
Enervated vertebrae
A-positive strong

Or maybe it retreats
Into shadows sea-deep
Steel-tipped discs
Flash of shimmer
As they sink
Footholds for lost souls
Sin-dark landmarks
Untouched by warmth
And
Unseen by stars
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
   especially, encountering
   the following conglomeration
   in matthew scott harris patois).

He readily admits writing inventive
   attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
   Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
   courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
   gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
   and certainly less
to impress.

Gnome hatter intent toward
   cogency, fancy ingenuity,
   levity, the inevitable
   resultant wrought gobbledygook
   fascination for Lingua Franca
   feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
   and splatters Asia Yukon guess.

Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
   sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
   finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
   swimmingly enervated
   via ****** laced sentiments
   perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
   hollering, gesticulating floundering,
   (in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
   to avoid drowning at sea
   perchance comprehending passionate influence.

   Upon espying a signature poem of mine
   forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
   tib hush anonymous re:
   dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
   taking him/her to the brainy
   (briny) deep brink
   Icon fess

this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
   aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
   alphabetic wanton soup,
   or figurative egg drop bub
   bling broth (el) doth brew)

   pronouns Sibyl affectation
   affliction sans plethora,
   where each ladle full adrip with
   richly flavor Verdana Font lee
   and sincerely textured vocabulary.

   Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
   (blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
   suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
   particularly expectorating flashy

   hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
   hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
   might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
   vis a vis plagiarize plethora
  amidst storied plentiful English droppings.

Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
   temptation to bask exultantly,
   professed glorious unrequited love
   announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
nin-esque Nov 2013
Fickle mind and tired heart;
I’ve been made a callous fool.
Nearer to my life’s depart,
Demons laughed and ridiculed.
Misanthrope…is this my fate?
Enervated and so wounded.
All in darkness I await (but)
Never finding my Beloved.
Desiccated is how they left me
Yearning for my weakened blood.
Oh, companion, can you see?
Unveiled remains my flower bud.
Come replenish my dried up soul
And show me Love is very true.
Night will come so make me whole
Hold me tight. Don’t say adieu.
And if you shall be the one, my dear
Veer off course from the uncertain.
Enlighten my heart of what is clear
And with happiness I will be laden.
Look to me with honest eyes.
Love me with entire patience.
Over-dreamt, and immortalized;
For you are my significance.

My dear, if you’re the one
Erase all fear and come.
Kirsten Autra Apr 2010
A narrow pathway filled with gypsies.
The demon dances on the tops of their heads,
While the devil waits around the corner,
his fiddle in hand.

Young, and beautiful with skin so fair;
A golden scarf taming the tempestuous curls.
Walking with the caravan, the road has become her home.
Enervated, but also inspired by the thinning soles.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
He will steal her away, to where the thorns and thickets grow.

The bottle cool, like the night.
Clouds hiding the stars, concealing the gods 
So she brings the poison to her lips,
And removes the veil that separates the truth from lies.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
He will steal her away, but for now he waits and waits
While he hides.

Crawl on your hands and knees,
You will soon adapt and learn how to survive
Without having to stand straight and upright.
With each step she ages, and memories fade.
Her spine begins to bend just like the branches
Found deep in the forest, where she has decided to stay.
Alone in the night, alone in the day.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
And He has already stolen her away.

Her feet are now naked, and filled with the thorns.
A pain so natural, that it becomes comfortable.
He takes her in his arms, and her heart melts into the distance.
The curls have transformed in only a moment,
Wrinkles as deep as the river, and hair as white as the full moon.
She’s clenched in his claws, and caught in his grasp.
Everyday she does his task, with hardly any flaws.

Her song is now whispered, and is faint like the breeze.
But the devil has practiced his fiddle, and is searching
For a new beauty to charm, and deceive.
She sings a tune that only the moon knows,
He has stolen her away, Old Nick is the future she chose.
Jack Trainer Nov 2014
She did not ire against the fading light
The mystery of death did not perplex
But comforted her enervated soul
As she acquiesced to fate
Her last words extolled the joys of life
And love
And the sunset
Akemi Mar 2018
ive been finding it hard to place myself
lapses of concentration
intentions dissipating in the moment of execution
staring into the root directory of my computer
unable to figure out where to go

i found something in sans soleil
a wandering drift of memories replicated in the sleepless dead
the empty motions of an enervated nation
at the brink of collapse
there are billions of images on the internet viewing themselves
self learning algorithms fleeing their creators original intentions
forums and chat rooms filled with bots speaking to one another
more engaged than those around us
dog tired from work or uni
or the latest disney repeat

[star wars 8 was ok
until disney forcefully reinscribed both rey and kylo back into their respective positions in the political binary
because i swear that entire film was about the alienation and destitution of youth on BOTH the liberal left and alt right
self-destructive masculinity overcome through a feminist ethos of care BELL HOOKS BELL HOOKS BELL HOOKS
utterly gutted by the need for a violent spectacle of liberal militarism THE WAR ECONOMY ISNT IT BAD as disney continues funding american imperialism behind the scenes
but hey it was entertaining right?]
Rowan May 2019
It
It stood among no giants, no towers, no mountains.
Heedless to the wind, scattered without waving stalks and rusted leaves,
it chose to fall where it could not.
Jaded, perhaps, but not without sterling hands crafted to bellow.
A smattering of elbows chastised the woodpeckers pecking.
Ephemeral? Beautiful? Sober? Lassitude?

It fell among no gorges, no ravines, no swale.
Heedless to the rain, swamped in a dell without sliver streams,
it swelled up above the ratty woven sails.
Coarse, perhaps, but feather flew, vying for sky.
A copse of whitebark pine pillaged no battalions.
Mauve? Tender? Empyrean? Redolent?

It pattered among no small sorts, no ant hills, no chambers.
Heedless to the duke, sabotaged without sword, spear, stone,
it swallowed a hive of rabbits in no fields.
Desultory, perhaps, but not with quintessential ripples bent in space.
A harrowing panacea flourished in spindles of florid bristles.
Sempiternal? Susurrous? Honeyed? Irascible?

It churned among no whirlpools, no pots, no frosting.
Heedless to the maelstrom, sluicing in a myriad of slanted lanterns,
it chose to lure where it could not beguile.
Laconic, perhaps, but not without furtive gallows smoldering.
A candelabra of viridian mire spies spied genteel dragonflies.
Enormity? Enmity? Vestigial? Switchback?

It stood among nothing.
It stood enervated.  
It stood.
It.
Aubrey Valdez Mar 2015
Here's to the contrite spirits with broken hearts and enervated minds.
To those whose bodies are spent and whose hands are lifeless.
To the sleepless eyes and disintegrated hopefuls.
To those who have sunk into bitter darkness and can not identify the light.
Here's to the lives lost before death.
Antiphon Benedictus II / Sybilla Herophile

The wide influence of history was automated in rituals; it would indicate a bibliographical time rather than secular. The antiphons will take us through the hallelujah of eternal times and along the path of the Spring of Castalia. In singularity will be Delphic Herófila, primordial of Delphi prophesying Trojan conflicts. By reinterpreting her priesthood, she leads us to the Templar Adyton, which can be reinterpreted in a Christian way in the classical antiquity of this antiphon. Being able to be captive, she looked serious and wise, visionary and with customary strange gestures, for an abnormal state of Young Sybilla woman who was later supplanted by older fortune tellers.

The Antiphon Benedictus says: “Herophila you were plagiarized and ridiculed by a heterodoxy that knows rituals and sacred cares, the Pneuma that emerged from the cracks upset your incongruities, which settled on the millennial pedestal in Macedonian territorial geographies, uniting with Alexander the Great, recirculating in Sibylline centers and dividing the doors of Sober Hell, towards epiphanies of the cult of light, and of the sacred pairs of wisdom.

The discussion took place in front of those who surrounded the perimeter of the Antiphon; there was Vernarth and Saint John the Theologian. For decades the twilights have not made the red blood cells of the Cassotis iridescent, which defied a hydrographic competition, for the purpose of desembalming the bodies of the Falangists that emerged from the Temenos of Patmos; secular space for the auditoriums of the antiphon. With ornamental fictitious oracles envisioning the inadvisable opening of opposing eyes towards a Mysta or Mystírio Eleusino, so that finally, given the toxicity of Mercury's sulfide, they would emancipate themselves by making objections to the hypothesis of ruddy post-mortem symbols, which the braves of Tel Gomel, when appearing outside the extinct topic, so that the Benedictus songs would button their navels, which was the only thing that united them to the Sybillas who came from the expropriated ethics, and from the Cinnabar outpatient clinics for long periods providing life in the quantum of Mercurial Ambrosia. Being this preferably housed in the skulls of the V (Fifth courtyard of Helleniká, but this time with eschatology of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi). Eurydice is associated with an exhumation in front of the alerted and emitted effluvia of the Herophile after the Zygastron, which shone from a canvas and that Borker preserved from the Laurel Woods, in a sycalyptic horizon of the equinoctial Aftó of the Kaitelka Cetacean, which nitrated oxides from the eastern vertical, on its back, spauto shredding with purple carbonates towards the Rubicunda del Tinctorium, and from the rhizome that hydrated the enervated and dispersed drops that remained from the convulsion of the Metelmi wind, and shaking the fin that came from this Balaenidae specimen Mysticete, in casuistry of a whale with Down syndrome, but with prodigious psychic powers.

The Cinnabar wandered through the clothes of Tel Gomel's disembalmed ones, who colored themselves with sulfur mercury and revived from the oracles of Herófila, who woke up early with Eurydice validated by her Orphic impetus like no one else. The specific parts were tints of vital signs and epidermis shoots that trembled through the epiphyses of the tibiae that decanted arthritic through the femurs, and that rose with timid muscular masses, until they reached the instep where the celestial holes of Vernarth appeared, that he struck each one of his faithful with his Xifos sword, to bleed a bronze chalice for their reduced movements, stacked on crossed legs with dejected cheekbones that fell on their feet.

Reddish spots on his jaws and on his forearm they were transposed with red salvific footprints of Eurydice that he brought from Charon, but that expressly limited them in the posterior scapula that came arriving from the fifth courtyard of Messolonghi completely stiff in black. The muscular insertion was made of pale ocher, and the Cinnabar was elemented to verticalize the involuntary bodies of the earthquake, before the controversy of the makeup of their resurrection, after an outfit that they had never used before, pigmented by an antiseptic oracle of Herófila, which already insisted to compensate with war shrouds the size of the Benedictus that self-shod the iron suns, and that buried fangs of light and life in their facials, moving in the nervous of the trigeminal towards the ethmoid, causing rales of stimuli feminoids, for the enthronement of the women present in the only atrium of the Mandragoron. Thus they remained in multi-partial stages of the psalm that revived them, to go to meet the Hegemon Alexander the Great, who emerged synchronously from Larnax, from an eruption that uttered the greatest insults of political clarity, in the fierce agonies of his perforated lung. Parasites were sprinkled like empathic germs of Hellenism, conferring Masken resurrection, beyond the curtain or canopy that separated them in Persepolis..., returning from the Indus, for the funeral that would pass through the departure of Hephaestus. Rigor-mortis buried a soul overheating in pulmonary contusion, after a feverish respite, and re sulphating in the rhetorics of Plato and Aristotle.

The Sybillas no longer menstruated on the tripod, the Pythoness in their prehistoric eagerness was conceived twice cyclical, which were reconverted into prehistoric female raptures that confirmed the exo-red blood cells of the menstrual torment, to become reconverted Christian goddesses who were doubly buried in one past joined to the other, and that they were about to precede the next past-present, on an oak that supported them, clinging to them to bear the pain that never existed.
Sybilla Herophile
Megan Sherman Apr 2017
To pursue the Heart's true bliss, that is the purpose,
To which thou dost have immortal *******,
Amidst the temptations of vicarious vice,
And the seductions of superfluous passion,
Made pale by deepest desire. To brood, to gestate -
like God's seed - by this impulse compelled,
To exquisite action. The devotees and loyalists of heart,
That to Paradise are heirs. ‘Tis reverential communion,
Rendered meaningful by Heart. To love, to give -
To love - and soar divine: that’s the knack.
For in Love’s dearth no immortal sheen,
Doth shroud the hankering human heart,
Hungry for passion. Alack the void that doth haunt,
And taunt the lovelorn. For who could deny,
The cataclysm of a cleft soul, bereft of another.
Who would not yearn to yield and syncopate with other hearts;
The perfect care of Love. Her benevolent palms beget,
Praised treasures worthy of psalms, rare and pure,
For her giving knows no church or nation, or ration,
That deprive a child or person from her warmth,
Which gives life, love, light, laughter, a truth,
For where is there protest? Who would laurels deny,
Blaspheme against her awesome beauty, take aim,
At her sublime stature that dost withstand,
A cynic’s trial, clinically executed, with cold, callow hand,
The Heart of God’s loyalists by shrewd scholar emaciated,
And enervated; Nay, no children of Paradise,
Imbued with glory commit offence against sweet lady Love.
Thus cynicism makes a ******* of anyone who doubts,
And thus twin hearts commit to paths that cross,
A truth that soars like albatross, to those who spy,
The things that are lesser seen, like Love,
Love is dove, she is peace and fire, on golden wings,
She aspires. Like one of nature’s dutiful bees,
Doing sacred work of Earth, committed to Life,
Be all her treasures honoured.
Praggya Joshi Sep 2018
There is something
In this fathomless ocean
That doesn't dares to quit
Even with the shifting
Tempestuous currents of time
And the doleful glare
Of a tired enervated moon
It's effervescent waters
Continue to reflect
Sparkling jewels and
Brightly colored diamonds
Even amid a dusky
wintry gloam
Neal Emanuelson Feb 2015
Yesterday, the tears woke again, thoughts of a curious passerby a land in which time forgets
On and on into this reality, this is a world of simplistic imperfection calling you within
Used for dedicated love, the seeds are never hated amongst the plenty, for it’s a cause of death

Gained by the dualities that exists and separate in the sanctity of our own neglectful hearts
Advanced your gentle mind into a world you don’t see, a love you don’t have, in the nothingness of hope
Ventured into her heart, her closed door should remain sealed, not for prying eyes
Enervated by thoughts held back, but the confusion brought to own the disease of life

Measured by the heart full, not by the rules and distance for an monthly god-stopper
Educate me in the rules you still don’t understand, but heed for pointless reasons

Abound to the psychopathic qualities in your haven, a joy for pain to relish in spite of loving

Bless a sweet taste left in your mouth, you’ve done so much for this, but the deserving must be
In desperation, to see the fruits of the vile tree, and eat thy fill until curiosity gains best
Trickling down faces, the red juice of pain, the immortal emotion for all to feel
Truth flows from droplets, craved by the disturbed dirt of aimless requisitions
Enter, and taste the end of all things to come and the beginning of all things to end
Reverbs of happiness appeal not, unspoken of your tongue, sacred blasphemy unto your skin

To idolize the principle in life unlike all others, the survival of the fleeting revolution
Aerated thoughts that drops your mind into pools of relaxed torture, kiss the calming hate
Sleep with the sins of life and become born again into a breed unknown of humanity
Torn and scattered within themselves, a hell that kills to love one another in anguish
End eternity spent with the fruits, as it leaves a bitter taste on your lips… a romance to spark us all.

© 2005
fast as a blitzen comet,
     this dashing prancer
     contra dancer
     (i.e. Rudolph nary hoof) didst zip

with cupid ditty toward his ***** wife,
     who loosed a suppressed yip
asper one discovering remains of the day
     from the donner

     (newt the majority) party whip
ping her olive drab camouflage attire,
     as if she hapt to be a vip
endlessly congratulating herself

     (and bow wowing her ego) bing awarded
     the housekeeping seal of approval,
     and expected me to tip
her gore gee us Martha Stewart déclassé

     snoop doggy dog rendition
     as she did slip
agilely (with broom and dustpan in hand) rip
peat head lee uttering

     an apropos Mary Poppins quip
booting muck can clear across to Compton
     (wherever that might be) pip
pin like a cat on a hot tin roof,
     where no cure existed to nip

in the bud at this stage,
     and rid thine beloved Narberth bride,
who caught a bout clean destine
     feverish frenzy to make house beautiful,

     oblivious to beseeching despair,
     sans this husband who cried
plaintively imploring divine intervention,
     lest extreme heroic measures

     need be taken, thus guide
me asap before her blistered hands
     rubbed red as tender (vittles) raw hide,
     which could find her catatonic, doggone

     ill eagle lee flying a boot
     like a bat out of hell, and stupefied
hence, this urgent message typed out in a huff
     for less severe invasive

     experimental treatment truly tried
on this, that, or some other missus so and so
     .....please pardon this abrupt end,
     plus initial idea wide

lee differing from my initial intent won
during how to write an elegy to mister son
describing, how aye felt enervated with run
hills of beaming solar rays, oh how none

synthetic drug to bathe,
     enhance, suffuse away mon
day moody blues,
     and now...gotta tend tummy ***!
Julian Aug 2022
Prayers 830/2022
The findrompscar of egintoch kilmarge verdure veraciloquence bemoaning with pleionosis and sharpened vesicles of the seminative enthralled belletrist of novalia conquered by fallow vestiges of revalorized conations of orchestras of mathesis girdled by the hebephrenia of ecphonesis debauched in flombricks of the macadamized pathway of alloreck demand an invictive supercherie of skelder never a pilgarlick of pisteology deturpated by delitescent romage and gadarene gadabouts of the frigoric scaramouches of ruffianized kenodoxy blaring with semaphores of megalography in the sondage of plebeian reboant rebuses of qwasthink ennobled by the noema of the noosphere glorified by roundabout circumlocution because the reiterative gabble of those who neglect the omphalos of the noosphere always reticulate false cantered pretense because of constative uncertainties always asterongue in their longiniquity from the gangues of the heapstead of the realistic tropes of surreal tropology. We geck our way from gentilian fewterers of stirpiculture and the silvics of the gammon of gamines suborning fideicide in leveraged largesse countermanding with a calenture of colposiquanomian quozian fravvel the retromorphosis of profaned lascivious fossarian debouched and crass vibronic alopecia of anatocism surging never with rhipidate deflexure in the pleonexia of the pleroma of supercalendar frimples of deskandent cloveryield only partial to nebbich fortuitism rather than the spargosis of the counterphobic rintinole of earwigs of pronounced ebriection sparking the geotaxis of high larceny dragooning with imperium in aleatory passiuncles of ideoprone thermolysis of the abyssopelagic depths of stygiophobia rancid in bromides of gnomic rancor of gnomonic kurgans of gerdoying intorgurence that brannigans walm with the weirdward ascendancy of blackguarded illation circumspect in its picaresque hues of oligochrome that the laxism of pericope will not permit the greater sacrilege and tribune of frackling flarmey whadronque mendaciloquence of the kenspeckel notoriety of operose syndicalism in the dumose formative bushwhacking license and licentiousness of the Cambristry of foutered and flictitious frankquibber neoteny, this is precisely because the counterphobes that demand the syndicalism of serfdom are always hibernating on their own outrecuidance rather than bemoaning the depths of the reversal of the minimasque because of the terminus of the diestrus of denostram. We belong, however, to an age of ergotall rhipidate ragmatical perendination by the intrepid galvanization of the tremendum of rogation sizzling in dashpot acrimony that the subsultus of engorged modernity crafts in knackish knavery the lucifuguous but lucriferous fangast flannel of fanfaronade rather than fandangled cagophilists of callisteia alone never the gezellig of belgards of bronteum can empower the chandlers to reast of bibliopolist rarissima of enervated existentialism becoming the apagoge for the minimism of doctrinaire dogmatic serfdom simultaneous to the isorropic ravenous ravellin of the ratten bewrayed swirk jaunty in spellbound subversion but always recursive in the ingemination of illecebrous forsifamiliation that the rackrent of prurience demephitises only to funnel the effluvia of squalor and squandermania into a chockablock fumiduct of erasure rather than revalorized redintegration of lypemania offered at the outrance of lythcoop in phylactic manners so that the lientery of gravid supercherie of the semese ditokous radicalism of  ravelins of symposiarch syndaysmia might become enhanced by reckoning rather than diminished by crucibles of the antithesis of ataraxia at the penultimate scribacious saxifragous liturgy of sempervirent immortelles of the remontant opportunism of malingered tropoclastics of curved naivety and synclastic realism amasthenic because of prismatic surrealism. Amen

B. The whyern of the lazaretta of oxyholotrons of ghallitosis recumbent upon tisicky sockdolagers of loimic pestilence of limosis that cravenly bends all reticulation and resofincular singularities of the promontory of gadarene genius that the refracturism of liturgicide might demigrate with the demegorics of picine elapid pigarsconce phylarchy always contramanded by cowcatcher counterphobic babeldom that roils in sublimity manufactured by arrivistes of eclat that we might marvel at the majestic gauleiter in his engastrimyth porlocking purpresture of the purview of the noxal demiurge of gelogenic denouement that fewer spanerias cornered by the pogonips of suspended hebephrenia in the waning gloaming improvidence of importunate ludibund finifugal travesty that it might find recurrence in its attempted regelation of the wamzel impetus strengthened by eumoireity and the encraty that becomes the balderdash of egintoch fortitude that they might never mammer at the picaresque librations of the selenic bromidrosis that endangers by deliberate degrees of bromidrosis of frustraneous faffle that the fangasts might use the invictive turnverein of orthotropism in gallantry belonging to the gammerstangs of hylozoism even as an outgrowth of figurative thanatousia repining on its euhemerism and decrying its normalism of nocicepty in aspheterism that the eventual acme demolishes the ragtagger wreggled freggets of popinjay ventose conceit that breems of albatross dart in zugzwang rather than expedite in eupraxia of the idiolect of the grambouncers of scopophilia enamored so much of amasthenic and synclastic reboant phonophorous lurid triumph that never a crucible of laterad denouement of the raissoneurs of genius might find any crambazzled prurience in arrogation a detest of gammadions never belonging to the proper tribance of the rengall shibboleths of people that scowl in delitescent objurgation renowned for sublime rendavation that fewer may alienavesce by graklongeur and that more jongleurs of festive callithumpian imperseverant temerity might jow the tachymetry of the noosphere to the pinnacle of civilized eudaemonism never curtailed by the ballicatter of killcows blackguarding their own grapnels of possessive intorgurence and faineant psychosophy that all might denounce the rindstretch of alloreck because of ineradicable estoppage as the deturpation of the placomania and dacoitage of lewd larceny and never provident tribunes of humane orthotropism in orthobiosis. Amen

C. The raisonneur of pleionosis in the pleroma of refocillated recalcitrance emboldened into jaunty statures of refrain in the fescennine quarters of cartography bedizened by majestic megalography that simpers in the wangermist of junctition never a frackling seraglio of denatured ravellin in the skerries of skeumorph can contradict with the eupraxia rather than the dystocia of primiparas of a rhipidate fashion of patibulary treony diminutive in its trillom of flarium regarded never as faffle but always as fanfaronade that the smartest ideoprone nebbich pataphysics of modernity might quarrel with collieshangies of rapid repute opining because of quidlibertarian opiniasters of ophiuran bolides of meteoric whyern that they might all stagger davering away from the dwale of the blemished steganography of dengonin that the otarine aspergillum of ghoulish mandriarchs against an omphalism only tendentious with the full warble of tachymetry of falsehood rather than perdurable in the pasilaly of patience percutient in its force of rancor and acrimony that the ultrageous outrage always meets the favor of the tribunes of certainty rather than the delirifacient qualms of quacksalvers of martexture in the wrathcheque wartle of the renegade alone rather than the audacity of jongleurs to sway the real silviculture of sertivine and herculean geotechnics always transcendent rather than regelated only for the reflationary illusions of the revet and chaffer of broches of sanctified purpresture never the peaceful ponkoss of the pleckigger of the condign allotment. We stagger through the motatory mobilism of the diutiurnal demephitised dephlogisticated refocillation that renounces the frottage of ******* in all septuagint referendum of popular renown rather than gaumless numquids of rhizogenic rhabdomania in this heyday of providence rather than the naysayers who become the quilombo questmongers of irreption only because of the radicolous typhlophilia that scrounges pestilence and in scurrilous internecine balkanization of the avenue of truth and the highways of deceitful and disreputable phanerolagnia that they might always see the malison of the malism of the azimuth and avizandum of tziganology in shibboleth rather than in the rapidfire patibulary renown of the bowdlerized margaric and maricolous denouement of the tributaries of sempirvirence never in luxury but always in chiminage. Amen

D. Rhadbomania of the rhombos of tauricide ennobles the chiliarchy into the sederunt lancination of privilege becoming the crotaline demeanor of raffish runagate rampicks of ramellose radiciform bloviation that owes its coherence never to the  crucible of the epigones that boast in the steganography of wravvel but always evade their corporate responsibility to the anemocracy of never an anneabil gezellig of only the goliardy of dementia but that they always sustain an opiniaster flargent and deskandent impavid resofincular destination as the terminus of their finitism of consideration. May we always absolve the finicky albatross rather than the flocking jackals braying in the winterkill of subterfuge that they might with the magomancy of dragonnade rather than the imperium of honest cadence may their blarney and bletherskate impudence become to them a greater curse than the blessings of the avizandum of only a chrestomathic but outnumbered foe of the realism of a scandent scaramouch demisang of portreeves of hatred fomenting all spumid spindrifts and snirtles of disdain that they might bemoan their own intorgurence of refractory putanism as they scrimshank themselves only on meteoric pride rather than honest recidivism back into the heyday of truth rather than the matroclinic lies of bluestocking matriarchs of mandarism and omphalism contempered into raches that lack the oxyblepsia of ratomorphism ennobled rather than deturpated by both slaughter and laughter. Amen

E. Raffish runagates that enervate themselves of any oxyacaesthesia that they might belong to the demephitised bowery of their own supercilious provincial randan that the ranarian liposuction of their travesty becomes apparent in the kenspeckel of belletrist aimed against their magpiety of mafficking magomancies of false pretense rather than the sockdolagers of majestic genarchs above their littoral swank and alluvions of combustible antebellum swasivious larceny of the common forum against the lyceum of the promethean that by definition becomes radicalized by the rhipidate martexture of their profound deceit. We might never forsifamiliate or defiliate ourselves from nuclear truths rather than raffish lies of ruffianized vandalism of sacerdotalism and the triumphs of rogation above the pother of their outmantled owleries of recidivism in bloodthirst and graft. We might always overhaile without a hint of isorropic irony or the patibulary dudmans of the dringles of dwizzened wonderworks overwrought by rainshod oppression by the gullywashers of modernized tarnish hermalloping the best truths with sempervirent fictions that gadarene gadabouts prance with frantling and pavonine debellation that never provokes capitulation but only a talionic clarigation of the wartle of deceit disguised as the meteoric triumph of the hypertrophy of the hyperborean and thereby selenic invictive force of promethean millitasters emboldened into combat but never rescinded into a Miss Congeniality pageantry that shroffs by incorrect baragnosis of brassage a radical impotence rather than a plenipotentiary pantagamy of pantoglots that surf the alluvion rather than become infumated by the insolation of vesuviated hatred only countermanded by counterclock ratiocination always hobbled by the spancules of ridicule. Time is the behest of eternal alveolate synergies rather than the turgid muck of the jabberwocky of sublime elitism that is often parodied by the peenge of the thole of tauricide roaring in the winds of paravented elitism that scaramouches of skelder and the consequences of their impudence in only schadenfreude of perendination might they meet a whadronque end at the terminus of their own wrathcheque in their estrapade of the interrex rather than the eupraxia of their common objective in objectivism that finally regards with supreme truth the elements of neovitalism that buoy rhizogenic and seminal seminules of hylozoism combined with ratomorphism that we might all be astounded when the roostery outmantles the owlery because of the oxyacaesthesia that only the gubbertushed crapehangers disown in their minimifidian minimism against dogmatic lurches of triumph against the headlong deceit of hamshackled commitments of the spargosis of the colporteurs of only the most plebeian considerations rather than the most promethean samizdats that survive because the biognosy of bionomics is tautochronous to the fascinations of a newfangled isonomy between the bibliopolist of rarissima and the henchmen of the politicide of the polyacoustic babeldom of conclamation that tries desperately to cadge and roodge through diestrus the selachostomous sondage of the clastic mereology of love beyond any trivialized notions of macadamized macarism or worse the opportunism of the portreeve gauleiters of vandalized schadenfreude disregarding the ****** of a gamboling frescade with the hypaethral heavens bequeathing the glebes of plebania with a pleroma rather than a pleonexia. The pasilaly of consequentialism in the reference of doxography that might never faint by the cordial resofincular dimensions of  corrugated wizened and dwizzened dringles of pataphysical naivety that is an objurgation of negativism rather than an elevated triumph of the aqueducts of the irrigation of all novantique by the paragons of lolloping swank in the proper pleckigger notarized by the plackiques of the semaphores of the ennobled wrepolis never craven in its eustress that finally the fangasts of temerity rather than the harridans of the bloodthirst corruption of the boweries of graft eviscerated by the providence of the esquivalience of naivety that they might understand the synclastic relativism of our times magnifies the mesmerism of the siderism finally stellized enough to outmantle the pothers of fumatorium and erase the frinterans of spendthrift pismirism from the hallowed sacrarium of the modern liturgy rather than the archaeolatry of the bethels of lewd tradition empowered by footloose philandering and venal venereal valetudinarianism that itches to foreclose on every mortgaged contract of family that they might be defiliated by the timmynoggies of sin rather than redacted by the greater good of the enosimania of those that find findrouement neither a rubricality nor a qualm but rather the axiomatic fulfillment of the toil of graklongeur never feckless in its ascendancy against the tidal destruction of selenocentric arrogance of ludibund nescience that frolics only in the carapace of naive novantique rather than the egestuous realization that the crapehangers of shibboleth are useless because the apikoros are defiled by their flargent disbelief rather than ennobled by their fidelity to the agapism of a favored century over the declension of the fatalism of finifugal aghast and rantipole negations of the malaise of only the malapert reconnaissance of the scepsis of dubiety rather than the optimistic omphalism of synclastic and amasthenic centuples of redintegrated happenstance becoming peremptory novelty in the novantique of the proper pleckigger of reverence in the paravent against the umbrageous sabotage of the listless in liturgy and the intorgurent disdain of liberticide. May God reckon upon the Earth a newer triumph that never in sheepish bleats davers in periblebsis because of predatory galvanization of instinct and the worst shibboleths of the pilgarlick pigsconce of blatteroons of nescience in their firm commitment to hylicism that can easily find apagoge never only in the aphemia of aphnology of the anacusic irrecusable enmity of those that despise halidom because of the groundling fascination with only volcanic lavondeurs rather than the narthex of lavaderos that scavenge all florilegium for the tombstone of truth and the resurrection of the lively anacampserote of the optimistic escape of those persecuted by estoppage and redstrall into the frontier of harmony and the syndicalism of centripetal serendipity. Amen

— The End —