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Ugo Apr 2012
Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.
http://www.amazon.com/OLAF-Nothing-Above-Fiction-ebook/dp/B009XZ9OVY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid;=1353822133&sr;=8-1&keywords;=olaf+last+king+of+nothing
Farah Hizoune Jan 2013
I was born in a pauper’s grave,
with the metallic taste of a silver spoon still lingering on my palate.
A passed life of exuberance,
lost like the previous days’ sunrise.
Golden beams; symbolic of only a desire for an intangible ecstasy.
I grew with a sharp tongue and a black heart,
the quality of my soul marred by the bitterness of regret.
I craved a euphoria that I could never quite attain,
a deranged obsession to feel at home again.
Though, I knew I would ne'er again experience,
the touch of fine lace on my flesh.
There is now a palpable separation of the wicked and the righteous,
and I have been caste down from my glimmering throne,
to walk among the dead.
I cringe away from their decrepit hands,
and the sickly-sweet, decaying smell of their breath.
These rats eating rats, this cannibalistic life,
I feel its effect moving through my layers of psychosis.
It gives me that déjà vu feeling that the sky and sea, unfeeling as they are,
have heard enumerable cries like mine, all too many times before.
I have a yearning in my bones for the days of Summers' passed,
with the smell of sweet honeysuckles and red roses perfuming the air.
Delicate words whispered through the vines of cherry blossoms,
dressed in soft, white cotton and lying amongst the Juniper trees.
It calls a tender feeling of nostalgia,
but my vision is shattered and beaten by a retched reality.
That of broken moon beams and a devastatingly darkened, burgundy-lined sky.
There is a perpetual insanity that lingers after every passerby,
like a dense trail that is all consuming.
The residents of this apocalyptic dimension are all obscene and ******,
they all ooze a voracious odor of lingering death meat,
and no one seems to mind at all.
Kathleen Oct 2010
And then you say, "All we are is dust in the wind."
Little specks,
enumerable and miniscule,
grains of the infinitesimal,
listless,
pointless,
directionless,
fading dreams of nothing.
Well, I say "Thank God, I love the prospect,
there is freedom in being nothing."
Why are you so displeased with this conclusion?
Is it that the contention you wrought is dispersed by my contentment?
We'll let it drift then on the wings of some updraft on it's way to God.
invisible to the naked eye,
just as you and I shall drift thoughtlessly into the atmosphere.
Little particles of dust fading into nothing and immeasurably free.
creative commons
Tanya Chaudhary Oct 2014
He was delightfully kind
that he left me with enumerable misery.

I was so selfish
that I couldn't give him anything but Love.

*I still cant
Guled Hanad Omar Feb 2016
Flaws is an intrinsic trait coexisting with love and hate.                                
Two worlds are torn beneath the pleasure of flaws underneath the sunset.

One will fall in and out the hole of mystical creatures, the other will observe with a watchfull eye gazing into the distance.

A lifetime is a long time, a vow is made.
I am sorry for my enumerable infinite amount of mistakes.
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Feline lips
Tightened
Midnight living
Is or the uneasy awakening
Of the people affected
By corrupt intentions of purloining
Infected by the greed
Love is all you take in the beginning
The bitter high ground
Is like the pale blue sky
The reconciles with the perilous existence
Too bad, if this doesn't help
You should look at the grey clouds made of silver linings playbooks
Like new book readers
And newbies
I sip my coffee, bitter and sweet
Enumerable by the waves of sickness
That hit me in the perishing lands
By the sandy dustiness of places that are beyond
My time and the possessions, and the thesaurus
I keep in my bag reminds me of the words
You were, in my circumlocutory motioning
To the suns behind the thousand splendid times
In a land without mirages and mines, my legs feel like landmines
I can't walk on them anymore
On anymore
On the road
Far away from home, there is a system of the drowning sun
Antediluvian sun, don't come back from this rising sultry skeptical land full of light
Too me mirages are just objects that appear closer than they are
And dreams are made of these
I believe
If I believe in me
Then, I'm one with this homeliness
Then the feeling of being pecunious about my own nomadic tendencies
I probably roam in the bare wilderness
Tended to by psychedelic instances of the bitterness of a hundred blows
A hundred blows represent a hundred battles
Dealt with, in the dancing moonlight
The night sky covered senescence of a field that had seen a thousand suns
Hidden by light
Identifiable with the dark
Afraid of time and beyond

— The End —