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cr Sep 2014
i slipped the silk fabric over the curve of my hip and the scarred flesh of my thigh in a dressing room with three of my friends behind me, ******* in the fat of my stomach. they say black is supposed to be slimming but it only made me bloated; maybe the mirror was a liar (i know it didn't lie). an elephant with too-thick eyeliner and a too-thick body stared back at me and i bit through the skin of my lip till it bled and i wanted to live on some other planet where elephants were appreciated.

"that's the best one you've tried on yet," someone said, but i couldn't hear them over the red-eyed demon within me which whispered of shoving ******* down the trachea, messy but quick, everything gone in an instant. if this was my best one, i was doomed because my eyes were glazed over with the misunderstanding that beauty would never apply to me.

"i'm just gonna go- go to the restroom-" and the red eyed thing inside me cracks its whip, takes over the nerves in my brain, makes my legs sprint to the toilets and it's over, it's done, the food gone among stomach acid, falling hair, and teeth erosion.

i can only imagine what the restaurant worker who was forced to clean rainbow-coloured ***** in the toilet thought.
this happened the other day. i cried a lot.
Lyndi Bell Jan 2014
October 3, 2013 at 1:22am

So maybe I still miss you,
but apathy is the way I want to feel towards you;
I want the ache in my chest to diminish,
to be completely extinguished in a quick fleeting moment.

But it’s more like erosion,
only washing away the most miniscule amount at a time.
Decreasing the pain in the tiniest of amounts,
taking decades and centuries of
wind,
light,
and rain
to morph it into what I desire it to be,
without any distinguished timeline.
Just natural causes that move uncontrollably along,
constantly irritating,
festering,
and ripping
the scab of the wound in awkward moments of solitude.
**I’m a slave to the tormenting low burning throb.
Dondaycee Sep 2017
I just wanted freedom,
I’m not talking about rights, that’s irrelevant.
We just wanted freedom,
As in the youth wanting better ways for development.
I’m speaking on the behalf of those unaware of their intelligence,
Those who discovered their element but kept the closet shut.
Afraid to offer the clothes on their back,
They’ll say it’s confidence we lack,
But here’s the ugliest fact,
We don’t open doors with skeletons.
Unless it’s Halloween, where dark and light are in resonance,
Yin and Yang, beauty is ugly and ugly is beauty, humorous medicine.
I have a testament, that if the morals in this holiday were a measurement of 365 days, it would be evident according to my estimate, that unity and love would be proper etiquette, excellent because even the dark would be perceived as heaven-sent.
The terms evil and hell would then be indefinite allowing a person to open a door with a skeleton as a cause without the effect being bedevilment.
That’s freedom.
Some have it in the day, most find it at night.
It could be with family or with friends.
A celebration of a season, or a reason to escape a thing we call life.
A venting conversation after empty bottles,
A sleep over when home is hostile,
They say happiness is in the moment,
I say that moment occurs when you’re no longer in a position to fight,
For a home, a place of comfort and acceptance,
A place where your company is appreciated,
We all need love, that warm feeling we get when standing in light,
Or the uplifting vibrations when the environment opens up, and you’re no longer forced to sit tight but now have the opportunity of standing up to take flight.
We deserve some freedom.
I used to feel alone,
With awareness that term became solitude,
I can’t crave attention after joining the mission,
I had to look in the mirror,
“Keep it together” said Kyi,
“Because this is a solid move”
But but, I’m losing my friends.
“You’re choosing your men.”
“A positive team,
Because that’s what knowledge do”
“Here’s a time reference using latitude.”
“Move forward, chase the rabbit food,
Clear vision with a positive attitude.”
“Moving West to east may feel like you’re leaving things behind,
But understand earth and understand time,
We circle back around, think of a birthday, there will always be a time when you're gonna look back at you.”
“That’s a rapid move.
These are states of Matter, going from solid to gas,
A caged bird ready to fly, that’s a cockatoo.”
“Atoms aren’t alone, eventually they meet others,
There’s a bigger picture, that’s a molecule.”
“Don’t feel alone, atoms go through solitude when there’s a column move, solid to gas-”
-a solid move-
“- but in our case, a change in longitude,
Because we’re shifting our consciousness from 3rd to 5th dimension.”
I understand the magnitude of the mission, that’s why we made this decision,
No need to crave attention when acting with promptitude,
Like minded people will act as a molecule and help constitute  a solid move in longitude, breaking the physical is an important attribute, analytical travel route, an atom moving towards freedom in its absolute-
“Knowledge acting as carrots, erasing ignorance, clearing the vision for an Omni move.”
The conscious battles to become the subconscious, the freedom to be all of me instead of part of me, that’s a body move.
Freedom is all I wanted,
Freedom is all we wanted,
Being labeled Millennials was the outcome,
It’s not life but these systems we’re trying to out run.
They look at suicide like, “What went wrong?”
“She looked so happy…”
Or “How did he feel alone.”
Freedom is when you have a home,
If I’m talking and you’re listening, that’s being heard,
But if you can’t understand it, there’s no meaning in the word,
That’s a failure in communication, standing without a herd I’d still be on my own.
If anything, the previous generations don’t understand emotions,
Feeling empty is indeed a deep feeling.
They say there’s not much in the bottom of the ocean,
I say dive,
“But Daycee we can’t the pressure will crush us.”
Now you see why suicide is chosen,
We dive, looking for something we know is there, unaware of the pressure, we get crushed by our own emotions.
These are powerful feelings and thoughts,
We see the insanity and what was lost in erosion.
Try to understand us, don’t try to change us, just like those whom predates emphasize, “Don’t blame us.” We must change a system that caused the previous generations to be broken, if anything our generation is bringing hope in, refusing to be above or below one, our words if anything are the greatest ever spoken,
We need people to understand us, not just listen, because these systems aren’t working,
Einstein said “A problem can’t be solved with the same consciousness that created it”, so don’t point fingers at us saying “Millennials” and that we were always given ****, when we’re the group that gave a **** about the world and the people that hated it and attempted change by not doing the same thing over and over again, innovative because we’re some creative kids,
I hope this is provoking because ****** we are special, specifically chosen,
To bring back balance and unity in consciousness that the ignorant and insane broken,
I am here to bring freedom,
Because freedom is something we all need,
The millennials are here to bring freedom,
Because it’s the one thing we all see,
The brothers and sisters we lost heard it call from the bottom of the sea,
Our ancestors want us to bring back freedom that was lost in waters but remained in gene,
Freedom is a kingdom we’re bringing where all is free.
Matty D Feb 2013
Welcome to the land of golden trout

Where black bears roam and hawks still shout

In the eastern Sierras, hills of the west

Tales of the Adventurers and their first test.

Forming an alliance in Santa Cruz

They left together, unwilling to lose.

Packing up and heading down the trail

They knew as a team they would never fail.

Without a moment’s hesitation nor shred of doubt

The crew took their Tools of Tenacity out

And in less than three months flat

The Adventurers finished, exclaiming “that’s that!”


But who composes this mysterious crew?

Wait just one moment, I promise I’ll tell you.

First, there’s Nico the Noble, the leader so fearless

Who also frightens many when he’s not beardless;

Followed by Ben the Benevolent with his hearty laugh

And never without his Capitals hat;

Kahn the Courageous has his wild antics

Telling stories with Buckeye semantics;

Jamie the Just and her vegan ways

Had to eat lentils for most of her days;

See Jen the Jubilant with camera-in-hand

Shaving logs for as long as she can;

The team’s newest member, Maggie the Merciful,

Has now experienced the wilderness in full;

Tim the Wise lacks alliteration, unlike the others

But has chased many cows, some scraping their udders;

And at last there’s me, the Notable Narrator,

So our crew’s legacy can live forever.


In our quest the crew has changed slightly.

Those unable to handle the tasks lightly

Had left- like Mary, Bobby, and Stary the Skeptical

All well-admired, and mostly respectable.


Now let’s shift our story to the work completed

In the struggling meadow, its health near-depleted.

Using fallen trees that have long-since passed

We found a clearing with their numbers quite vast.

Cutting the deceased into sixteen-foot longs

And lugging them over thickets and bogs

Our team stacked them perpendicular

To the stream, or creek, in particular

And in a magician’s “ta-da!” moment

Water rose up to our new component,

Flowing over the freshly-made dam

Then briefly meeting with dirt and sand

At the bottom. Multiplied by thirty

And that was work: rigorous and *****.

But why were the Adventurers sent there,

To build check-dams and do repairs?

It was, in part, human consumption

That led to the meadow’s near-destruction:

America’s insatiable need for beef

Will not, for a long time, see any relief,

So Industry has pushed forward, sending cows to the fields

Grazing and growing to become our future meals.

But little did Industry know how devastating

Hundreds of cattle leave an ecosystem suffocating.

Trampling grass and dispersing banks underhoof

The bovine are easily guilty, there’s so much proof.

Stupid, noxious, and obnoxious creatures

Recognized by these, easily their best features.

Incessantly screaming day and night

They are more like demons by every right.

Yet the Forest Service lets ranchers send

Hundreds of cattle, seemingly without end.

And while the Golden Trout crew fixed things,

It’s not enough to ease the strain the cows will bring.


So what can we do, if anything at all

If we go veggie will Industry stall?

Can the end of beef save the earth

Is society only worried when we gain in girth?

That’s not for me to say right now

It’s up to you to answer the “how?”


But I digress, I must end the story

Of the Adventurers and their summer glories.

In the end they saved the meadow, saved the day

Held the bovine rampage at bay,

Raised water levels, erosion erased,

Then was the time to leave that place.

So the Adventurers hopped in their van,

Eight warriors mean, lean, and tan,

And took off down the mountainside

To Santa Cruz and the oceanside.

Each followed one’s own path

But only after taking many baths.

The Golden Trout legacy will live forever,

Only made possible by the best crew ever.
9/3/2012
(c) MDC
the rock face had altered
after years of weathering
it had gone from rough to smooth
this is erosion
david badgerow Dec 2011
the bad news is coming in
we are being radically changed

be realistic
stop poisoning the air and water
stop soil erosion
stop degrading forest ecosystems
stop seducing children
stop buying politicians

realism
informs us
in a cuckoo clock

we
need a coninuous supply
of indifference and violence
toward people

all of us are suffering
recreationally
I always knew I was made of stone,
hardened and scarred by the weather
But with the very weather that tarnished the surface,
The slow erosion is made visible with patience.
These rainstorms eroded and shaped me,
Stripped me down bare and brought an evolution.
Somewhere between the thunder and lightning of the mattress
And the downpour of our hands intertwined
And the gale-force winds of the miles between us,
I cracked.
Liz Anne Jun 2013
I have been beaten, bruised
by your winds and your current
the beauty of the moon has pulled at me
has made the earth and sea wound

I am erosion in its strongest breath
pieces of the sky fall from my waist
and I am losing tender bits of skin
but I keep my lips un-parted

I am hiding from you
as much as I am missing
the feeling of your eyes on me

I have often wondered if
you ever felt not the wind and
the current but the moon itself
carry you in pieces away when
my gaze quietly grabs hold
and tosses distance far and away.
JGuberman Aug 2016
When you said "I love you"
it was like a room that was built
on to an already finished house----
always an afterthought.

When you said "I miss you"
it was like drinking coffee
from a teacup----
it never made a difference

But when you made
the mountains we had built up
into valleys
I asked "why?"
And you said
"Erosion".
Paul M Chafer May 2014
Serendipity.
You ******* what!
What you saying, pal?
Serendipity, oh aye, all right,
Aye, seren-******-dipity; whatever!
Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino,
Look into his rheumy eyes, really look,
Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you?
Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out,
Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing,
Nothing except the rattle of change.

Tell it to the punctured ******, go on,
Cold body on a cold linoleum floor,
He can’t hear you either, maybe though,
Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life,
Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call,
‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the ****?
Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars.

Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on,
Always falling; to them, falling forever,
In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death,
Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind,
Along with serendipity and bad choices.

And the young, oh they need serendipity,
Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes,
Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies,
Used and abused by those closest, the shame,
Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night,
Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison.

Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be,
Grinding machine of town-life hunting them,
Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling,
Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding,
Lapping up the young blood of runaways,
Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing.

With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide,
Dream of escape, for they all want out,
Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty,
After all, they live in a lucky ******* town,
So escape is not impossible, no,
Unlikely, yes, poor wee *******.

Serendipity should shout a loud warning,
Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can,
Run for your lives, the rest of your lives,
Town-life’s grinding machine awaits,
Watches for you, so keep running,
Never stop, never look back,
Not ever, not ever,
Serendipity.

©Paul Chafer 2014
Inspired by, and dedicated to, the writing of Ian Rankin and his book, 'Let It Bleed'
Ottis Blades Dec 2012
My eyes were trapped in the dark
blindfolded, hold the cigar
the Viet-Com may have won the war
but my surroundings smelled like a grass heaven
in the background 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” playing
and then she sat on my lap
feeling anxious while my hands were tied
let’s just pause and go back in time...

(10 Minutes Ago)

She pulls on my heart strings
like a puppeteer from above
the pendulum of my feeling swings
with every step she takes towards my door
the anticipation knows no precipitation,
the monsoon of her kiss
the outback of her reach
the caribbean sea of my ship,
lost in her isles, her eyes, her love,
then I hear a knock on the door.

She knocks ...1...2...3...4
opened up, I said hi, she launched her lips against mine
in an euphoric stupor, I tasted her breath
while she ropes her arms around my neck
let’s call it “The Aussie Missile Crisis”
she pushed me down on a folding chair
as the right index on her lips shushed me
went into the bedroom with her “bag of goodies”.

Came back out wearing a school-girl outfit
looking more “**** Bill” than “Hit Me Baby One More Time”
giddy as I watched her taking off the tie
impatient buttons divorcing their holes one by one
while she twirled, she danced, she teased
sealing with a kiss, tying to the chair my wrists
her breast against my mouth, I was a cub nearly starved
looks like Mrs. McDonald brought the farm.


...and that’s when her bra came off
to find their way around my pupils
my trouser friend could no longer be contained
with impatient hands, there was no time to sulk
I was more anxious to smash than the Incredible Hulk
suppressing my angst, my zipper, her leather
finding myself inside her beautiful lips
touching the roof her moist heaven.

My hands still tied, while she help my thights
real hard, real soft, real smooth
like her silky tongue, wet like May flowers
climbing up and down the stairs of the Eiffel Tower
she was a cosmic reaction, I was Yellowstone
let me come so you can climb on top
of Mount Everest, from there we could see the Earth
the land, the ocean, the skies, let’s fly together.

...and we did, lifted off from the chair
to soak the water from the clouds
to come back crashing on the couch
and my hands finally free to explore
her breast
her cheeks
the smoothness of her waist
her ****
the erosion I couldn’t contain
her legs over her face
touching
caressing
kissing
biting
trusting
in short
*******
until we both came
back from wherever we went
to just lay there, gasping for air
touching our faces, both smiling
like satisfied school children that schemed
red cheeks, blue *****, smoked the green
I was Joe D, she was my Marilyn
thus ending
“The Aussie Missile Crisis”.
Cadence Musick Mar 2013
our bedrooms are damp
from the leaks
and the cracks
in the walls
in the pipes
in the roof
in our hearts
in our minds
in our smiles
in our tears.
M Solav Mar 2022
Thought is finding its shape,
Becoming stronger¹,
And word by word,
Layer upon layer,
Self-erasing,
Taking form².

The mind is a collage
Creating itself from cut-up scraps¹;
It is a sculpture built by a flowing
Fountain of sand,
Both constantly being eroded
And being formed

And grown by the erosion²,
The sculpting fingers of erosion¹,
The sculpted shadows of forgetfulness².
Grains of memory
Beneath the fingernails¹,
They fall, they forget;

One remains².
Written on January 6th, 2022.

This is a photopoetry collaboration with poet Paul Rowland¹ (www.jonathanpicklesthecity.com). We took turns writing verses on an abstract image on Instagram.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
avalon Dec 2017
can you feel yourself dying?  
do you feel the earth as it burns
as it's turning, twisting
and spiraling so violently
the friction sends sparks
into galaxies? can you taste
the life as it's leaving you?
as it's rippling out of your
fingers and snatching the breath
that's knocked out of you?
do you cringe as your edges
are singed by the fire
surrounding you? as the oceans
subside and the planet decides
that erosion's
just your
point of view.
Moon Humor Apr 2014
My body burns to rove far from man-made
buildings, prisons for the modern soul.
I need to traverse the frontiers white man stole
from those who made it their home.

I've been down to the Everglades of Florida.
Fan boats flew through the estuary lines with roots
of mangroves. I've been to the Hoh Rain Forest of
Washington where fog descended on the shoreline
and married the sulfur smell rising from hot springs.

I must experience America's coast to coast beauty.

Every spare seconds I spend luxuriating in the
sun, thinking of all the places untouched.
My list of desires grows as the glaciers
of Glacier recede in Montana, beckoning
me to the Rocky Mountain Peaks.

Old Faithful gushes, surrounded by wolves and grizzlies.
Someday I'll cross Yellowstone's expansive mountain ranges.
from Idaho to Montana to Wyoming. On the arches of
Utah I'll face my fear of heights and find solace at
the tops of time-layered sandstone towers.

Descending the Grand Canyon I'll study beautiful
colors exposed by years of erosion. In winter
Death Valley will be braved. The lowest and direst point
will exhilarate me with scaled creatures as sand
dunes whisper my name with every hot breath.

The Badlands of South Dakota will hope I come
backpacking through prairies to watch precious bison roam.
California Redwood trees and I will stand side by side
as friends. Yosemite will call me to her cliffs and I will chase
waterfalls and sequoia groves until I've seen it all.

I ache to explore the terrain that bears
my name, the country I call home.
In the meantime in the Áullos kósmos or Ultramundi, Wonthelimar after hearing the speeches and paragraphs of the speakers saw from paradise how Calypso Lepidoptera appeared, approaching in great magnitudes on the dry land on the banks of the blue and golden stones of Skalá. In torrents of rushing from the water-sky with wind-water, by geomorphological hydraulics of the collapse of the irresistible capacity to harass each other in the ears of Seleuco's dialogues, after they piled up in the sneaking curds of him on the island of his speech. Right there it settled from the koelum or sky of the Lepidoptera from the Orofí or ceiling, on the natural arches of aeolian erosion and its devastating plumage, appearing in the subaerial splendor of Chauvet and its gloomy darkness, changing the morphology of the bank of Skalá turned into enchanted turquoise light also with Calypso nuances. From here Wonthelimar obscures the circumflex arc or circumflexes, which pierced and eroded the surface, piling up the ex-generals of Alexander the Great, to skewer them on the stump that was languidly seen supporting them, after the tides of Lepidoptera that avalanche in destined per capita towards the destined underworld of Wonthelimar.

Wonthelimar was separated from everyone by the moat that was separated from the gods of the surface, but now where the supporters of Seleucus were predestined by imbibing themselves in the bilocated kingdom of Chauvet and its darkness, where they were put into agreements of suitability and clarity of words discursive for the eagerness to persuade his major general. But they all fell into the middle of a dark Ultraworld, judging themselves to be dying in stockpiles of biosystems where no one helped them and gave them some indication or diagnosis of being separated from the canopy that drained them from spectral affairs, speaking as vivid visions of benefits and sovereignties that escaped from themselves without contemplation or quietism of the human race, which procreates xenophobia to kings without throne or nation. Under the Attic, calendar were the months here were only eighth, Anthesterion, received them with the name directly of the main festival celebrated in this month, Anthesteria. In goods of name contests in the semester of Pyanepsia, Thargelia, and Skira where they were relatively significant, in some of the greatest celebrations in the life of a Polis, which is not recognized in the name of the month. Some sparkled in the sound of the Great Dionysia celebrated in Elaphebolion (ninth month), and the Panathenaia in which they are only indirectly recognized in Hekatombaion (month one), named after the hecatomb, of the sacrifice of "one hundred oxen" celebrated at night. End of the Panathenaia. This is where the suspicious fondness of both families of Seleucus and Alexander the Great differed in the accent that marks the written line of the infra Polis, where the leaders of Haides or Hades are lost, for the purposes of Aïdes, as not indivisible, but with the presence of Wonthelimar, who is invisible but epically static on his balustrade in all the rings that chorally wore them for each patronage of the diádocos generals, even so he had betrayed the Hellenic legacy, by a Hellenic-Orthodox one in the disappearance of Alexander the Great in Babylon without knowing that it had been rescued by Wonthelimar, surpassing the limits of the rings of stefánes ibix, or Aros de íbiz, as nano kvantikoí daktýlioi, quantum nano-ring that augured to sensitize the dermis of its carpal phalanges, from the eighth, Anthesterion to Elaphebolion (ninth month), minus the one hundred and twenty days of gestation in a month of the attic of imníbiz, that it was of wise advice to receive him in the new engend rivers of Wonthelimar in the depths and bundles of marrow with gestation forms of an Ibex goat, with their embedded bases of stalagmites, filing the meaning of each life that was lodged in the depths of the caves and its opacity. The Eygues of Valdaine was the Acheron, but with half the deceased who sat in rows and unleashed their laurels that possessed poor aids tormented by mandrake root hands.

The underworld was a swamp that covered the heels of the diádocos in the immense blackness of the cavern that wounded them one and the other with its Kopis, by more than a hundred blows and slashes that covered them with mud and moans in their buried half bodies. That they had been intruded from linear entrances to the underworld of Wonthelimar. In the thick musts of the quagmire where objects with ornaments of fear and cavalier materiality lay, such mangrove deserts satiated with gloomy fibromyalgia and amnesia, refiguring in the wandering bones, that sinned in lights and destinies that were adopted in the sub-world with incorporeal needs., more than the exhaustion that tore the skeletal muscle of each one behind the meager compromise openings, in the strong ligaments of the host Wonthelimar that took them at forced steps towards paradises where there will never be consciousness from a Theseus typology, but from a sub taxonomy - Verthian mythological, for purposes and among others that unleash it by propelling self-infernos that are not those born by a Macedonian force or Satrap into puny kings turned into a servile, mute and decayed.

It is necessary, that solitude of all the entrances from the abyss into which they fell, was titanic and of ultraphobic acquiescent inspiration, and in the acid gestures of search of Persephone or Aerse that in random gestures fled from their persecutors, like females who ended fleeing from themselves falling into the back room where the end of souls is never exceeded or Psyché re emigrating from the punishments of a satire or a static that resulted in a ghostly wandering, or in tendentious spinners that tribulated in belated bundles of repentance. From primitive times, subjugations have been longed for in kings who would never think of leaving their cracks and washing their hands behind the backs of others who stood by, leaving the courage to lose themselves in the perversity of a body deposited in the Tartars, having to give them their prehistoric debts and meadows of carpeted debts and caged rooms.

The generals commanded by Seleucus walked barefoot along with the stump that wounded them in seams for their plantar areas, and in extreme distress, they did not dare to ask mercy from the cave host who transported them through the deep pit of perpetuity, where the frigid bullet of angina of Wothelimar, filled them with memories that protected their survival. In unworthy caprice and watery *****,… it ran frivolously down their legs, even after each impulse to recover the flashes of estimating being scared of oneself, after finding dead fruits subsisted halfway, feeling voices from the origin of the abyss that I quoted them.

Etréstles says: "Mashiach allow me to enter this grave, I do not know if I should go to rescue them, because I know what will happen..., I only ask that if I enter with courage, help me to find the same light of the exit, with the same memory of not to waste arrests, and not to lose myself in my entrustment by those who I know will not return”

Behind some Sabine poplars, it is seen how the elytra of the Lepidoptera were opened for those who crossed from the darkness without the appearance of their fruitful eyes that tickled praises of surrender, and not of ibid in the ibid that surrounded them, as if they were violated that heal at the moment when their faces departed from the miracle of privacy, and from the solitude decreed of non-existent company, companionship calming any dogmatic symptoms and hypoxia that the glimpse of the Eygues and the Acheron left them, further behind in which Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, Reader and Petrobus to bring Etréstles back.

Saint John the Apostle says: “Vernarth go for your brother,… he wants to protect the souls of Seleucus and his comrades, go soon because there is little left to fill them with darkness which will even besiege in their reasoning and anti homelands that will not be from the din of the campanile, out of tune with joy that runs on the graces of the gift that frees you from the worst virus by not being anti-viral… ”.

Vernarth replies: “Etréstles is the slogan of Erebus, perhaps of Bumodos…, I have to stop him for his profession, since the comrades of Seleuco will not return, the effigies of Wonthelimar have made them of his children in Ultramundi, and what is Solstice of the underworld, it is only a small Sun that fits in the buttonhole of the orthogonal slot that confines it”.

At that time Raeder paraded where he before they reached the omega of the gully pit, running swiftly over the eyelets of Wonthelimar, leaving both completely naked, to tear them away from the contrived spell and bring Etrestles back all the way together and running., but both stripped of lightness and acceleration escaped from the centripetal bodies. After the tortured walls of the pit, they no longer supported themselves in their Skotos or Erebo of Wothelimar in such a primordial deity of this theogonic and fantastic event in the bilocated cavern of Chauvet in Skalá. Here all the densities and units of physical genres, from above and below surrounded them in the thick sulfur atmosphere, Ananké in such a goddess of inevitability ran after all who tried to reverse the situation of the diádocos, for the purpose of consenting their paragraphs Hellenics and to save their lives, but the mother of the Moiras went behind Etréstles and Vernarth along with Rader and Petrobus who were basking in the glow of Persephone that imbued them as they stagnated drinking mead with the Canephores who followed him. From this cryptic moment or from the bombastic insignia of Crete, Kanti's trotting from his Cretan figure was felt united with the Lepidoptera Calypso, redeeming Demeter from her crying on the edge of some Bern olive trees, emptier now that the last gradients of the agonic and venous voices in the hilarious of some diádocos that were completely absorbed by the benevolent illusion of Wonthelimar, snowy in the harrowing tenuity of his gestures and of the great Iberian that took them towards the heights of the hillocks and towards the Ultramundi that It turned them into proles of the mountainous areas, and into super aquatic monsters with thousands of loose eyes in the arches of the generals bleating, which transposed ****** subjugations of primal deities, and philastics of phantasmagorical genres of Hellas that is plucked from the peritoneum of their stomachs, and that guttural eradicated them from the blue adrenaline of Apollo.

This odyssey dispelled the orthogonal lines of the poetic affliction of those who could see the sunset and the Spyché ***** that antagonized Ananké's numinous efforts to extubate them, and perhaps exile them to the Theban plains to graze Achaeans of the first degree alongside Shamash. Lamenting of young afternoons and of the abysmal with beautiful hair of the generous of effects, swampy and of feverish Hadesian or Hade's rounds that crippled their districts, they emanated from some Marie Curie junk and vapors radiating this Parapsychological Quantum to them from their own holy final body., for a virtuous and rout of the Ultramundis of Wonthelimar.
Wonthelimar Ultramundi
Wuji Jul 2012
Another day goes by on the beaches of Dubai,
And I'm sitting here drinking my tea.

No explosions or death,
Erosion not theft.
Just enjoying my days on the beaches of Dubai.

Planes over head,
My head filling with dread,
As the bombs begin to drop from the sky.

Now we all need to say,
Goodbye to the beaches of Dubai.

Bombed for our oil,
Exterminated for our pride.
We now say goodbye to Dubai.

Big American men,
Dressed in gold suits and ties.
They will always deny.

Their seeing off the land tonight,
Can't wait to get their prize,
That big old slice of oil flavored pie.

And they will never learn to share.

Now we all need to say,
Goodbye to the beaches of Dubai.
Those beaches.
Danielle Rose Oct 2013
I knew it wouldn't be easy but they never told me it'd be this hard
I trace layers upon layers of scars
Remembering each lesson carved into beautiful trademarks
I seek not revenge but rather to transcend
and at my wits end I find time to make peace with the screams
While watching the stream ever-changing shaping the banks of
caving earth
Dispersing tiny dismantled pieces into a deep ravine
A place unseen but the depths taunting
Muffled whispers and glimmers stir and discern all visibility
The waters reflected the chaos that plagued my reckoning
As I sat tossing stones watching the ripples fade and form
My small attempts to redirect the current seemed insurmountable
The rush and persistence of endless resistance surpassed my will
Swallowing my feet in mud and dismay
Beside the stream I'd forever stay
Jane Doe Jul 2012
Erode a smile
carved into my face
goes for miles
i can't stand this place
augustinenzimana Dec 2014
soil erosion grass trees and animal habitat is destroyed what a cruel fact to say but they are simple steps that we can do to prevent and are avoid planting along the ***** and not cutting trees for if we do so we shall have an environment free from soil erosion and we shall rejoice an unstoppable history. THANK YOU
Frisk Apr 2015
apologies blow into my face like the
cherry blossom trees are shedding their
sakura petals, or like being held at gun
point. honestly, i'm not sure if i should
see apologies as wedding vows or as
benign threats to my existence. the way
i see it, they didn't **** my parents and
that means i don't have to feel empathy
with fictional characters like batman.
then again, i should ask myself if i do
deserve the apology. for the type of
complex character i've developed into,
i realized how self-absorbed i've been,
seeing how i have compressed the
chests of people just like me without
reason. and for that, i apologize.

- kra
Denise Jul 2018
You’re pretty… he says
for a dark-skinned girl
I usually don’t talk to your kind.
am I supposed to feel honor?
you hopped of your pedestal, down to mine?
I will not curve my lips into the half of the crescent moon that you’re expecting
you do not deserve that.
exclusion encumbers me and I am small in your eyes.
Surely you can see that I am a dark girl,  sweet berries ; color of night
the same colors that allowed my ancestors to take flight.
freeing them from *******,
wounds that had them tied, without my hue, we would’ve died.
I am a stone immortal, no work of erosion can seep through my cracks.
the trials of my ancestors drawn on their backs.
so our heads, we never hang down , we are to be found.
scars to be hidden
it is the gas in a run-away car,
that last sip an alcoholic has as their arm and wrist lay dangling at the bar
this is the prestige of my hue
if I’m just pretty? then what could beauty possibly mean to you. a rare blend of  history, struggle and strength.
My head will not hang, not once more
by noose or in self distress, I am history.
No more do I long to sit at a table with you,
in the wake of waiting for your admiration
I have created my own table, in appreciation of your hesitation.
To you my worth will always be in comparison to what’s missing
that being pretty for a dark-skin girl, is a blessing.
Worth far more than bedazzled insults
, convinced I was worth less
they could see it in my eyes, the way I dressed.
The hue that I am is far greater than they told me
accepting  back handed accolades,  that’s the old me.
This house that holds my soul is only almost pretty… they say
if I weren’t so dark I might be worth loving, caring wanting or staying.
My color, a rustic espresso, no cream.
you say I am pretty for a dark- skinned girl …
no I’m pretty and that’s it!
signed a FED UP dark skinned chick
Gigi Tiji Oct 2014
What I feel are rivers filled
with droplets made of life.

Life rushes
over stone and wears
away through mountains,
lakes are memories
met by rivers
states of mind
crossroads
crossrivers.

Which channel
will I flow through?
and how many times?
How deep will I let it go before
it becomes so dark
that I can't see
the bottom?
Universal Thrum Jan 2014
I am the lust of the universe
longing to know itself

I am the thoughts like a cascading stream
water pummeling the rock of my soul
molding, shaping, forming, conforming

I am the peace of the bamboo forest
a society of shoots
shades of green solitude
standing together, clunking hollow,
serene, transfixing parallel angles, mesmerizing
obscuring the gaze beyond, reflecting within
drops drip and fall with a shake

I am the child throwing sand into the ocean,
jumping from the rushing water
challenging fate with a raised fist and a laugh to do his worst

I am the dancer in the waves
lifted by the tides
pirouetting in the current

I am the red stone cliff on the sea shore
sovereign stratum carved
growing with green, lush yet hard

I am the buttressed black lava rock
standing in the water, remote and mysterious
accepting time and erosion, jagged

I am the new sun rising red
arising from the mountain mist swirling on the ocean
ascending from the clouded horizon
a grand illusion of motion, perception, the seer

I am the beach wood
fallen from the trees standing
as sentinels to the ebb and flow
laughing in silence with the wind and the sound of tides whooshing

I am the surfer
riding the energy of the earth
slicing across the liquid wall face

I am the flag of men
unifying and dividing

I am the sand welcoming water and feet
soft as creamy butter

I am the mother and the son
replenishing, trailing, following, playing, watching
sharing belly buttons

I am the butterfly gliding on the Kona wind
wandering immortal
Molly Mar 2013
In fifty years, all my land
Might be swallowed whole by the glorious ocean
By means of erosion.
See? I do learn things in that concrete prison,
Where they raise concrete children, in a plaster mould
To fit their vision. Aren't I rebellious.

Tell me I'm brilliant, I am the future!
I am all you people's pensions, I choose your nursing home
Give me your money.
I am your investment. If I spend it on *******
That's your risk factor right there. No insurance policies dear.
I am reckless. Aren't I fabulous.

In fifty years, my nasal septum
Could be eroded by means of class A narcotics.
But there's always rhinoplasty.
And I'll be married to a big fat banker,
With comprehensive cover on all of my dreams
I'll divorce him for millions. Ingenious.

I'll be a plastic hollow Barbie,
Dripping with diamonds. I will be everything
That I ever stood against. Sitting
perched between ******* delicately
The fat rich men will take drags on me
Until I am ashes. Old nicotine.
Phia Oct 2023
You peeled back
all of the layers of my existence
to reveal cracks
in my weathered being.
My soul eroded and destroyed
from the harshest of rains
and the most unforgiving storms
Just some random thoughts.
SassyJ Feb 2016
Hypotonic collusions
Rising in osmotic lesions
An eruptive soul reversion

Emissions of embered logs
Each lightening with a glow
A youthful straw of clemency

Pollinated sandals, handled
Gripping the flesh in vessels
Houses of lost and unreal dreams

Vicarage gardens of suppression
Masticated in delegated abstractions
A surmise of death and redistributions

Each a beat rise, slide on frosty ice
Un-enveloped in seasons of erosion
Delusional commotions sprawled

In the dance of the ecstatic programming
The body waved and led in hypnosis
******* with the intangible essence

To make sense a revised tense,I fence
Straying in lenient lunacy to fields afar
A merry to ferry the phoenix dance

Rattles shaking in transit translations
Drums pause settling in finesse pond
A coitus of dimensional valour and vice
Chris Thomas Nov 2017
Metallic heart,
Savor what you can
While you can
And rest where you lie

Rain.

Sanguine flesh,
I will pierce thee
To feverishly rip, and tear
At these rusted-over heartstrings

Rust.

Sluggish pulse,
Hand over calloused hand
Wipe the luster from her brow
And drown me in the clamor

Pain.

Dangerous dreams,
I smell the rain from years away
I recede, and believe
That time won't repair this erosion

Lust.

.
Neuvalence Apr 2018
Between the stone the moss had lay
Cries of help left there to stay
Love and joy lost in the gray
A sight of the land so haunting

The boats on shore were but a few
Huts were scattered across the view
From erosion, the sands withdrew
Not one but I had stood the ground

At this very place where I had grown
Years ago, I had willingly shown
That I too could have walked alone
To reach a place of anew

But on my journey from the sea
I heard my people’s harrowing plea
From miles away—how could it be?
Had the winds taken them away?

Now that I have come return
Time has passed and I have learned
That each life will have their turn
To be at sky's mercy
This a poem I worked on for three hours straight, but was still dissatisfied with it. Now, two weeks later, it's truly grown on me

— The End —