life is never what it seems to be, always reoccuring with a thought as put upon the length of arms that revolutionize this thought. . .for those that can be bought,
is day like today less then feeling of want to rot, because so simple as a breeze brought down your temperment to be pleased. . .caught in a storm, that has outlasted
longer then your heart to feel content and warm, to feel the essence of a breath among a group of bad breaths, in other words, to breath among a group of brothers and sisters
from whom you can gain so much. But life is never what it seems to be, instead you look yourself in the mirror pointing at me, you, fool. Glowing from ragging frustration,
the toll blows for you unsurpassable deflation, because it is not for your hand that grows for the motion, to pick which ******* **** you want to lotion. Spearing the reasons,
the ego is your hero, born to work zero, and trusted with such hand to uphold all by command. To twist on the ****, that opens your door, to circumstances i certainly care less
the **** to continue to explore. But with this slight little mention, please pay close attention because this song is a *****. At least to explain the message, my whole is a
whole that takes life time to experience and grow, and appreciate the things that stoop all the levels around me, no barrier, no door, just genuine life experience to bring me
to come to this point to explain to the world something within the self, that is described by astute persons, for whom these ideas carry on to fulfill an immense part of
something that is casually slipped in and never thought about because it is told within reason that humanity cannot be without such astute person's idealogy. For **** sake my
friend, if your have many common sense, think of the common thing that has driven you to come to the conclusion that you have come to about anything. Everything is absolute and
existent and is evoked through the means. . .from the time of your dissapating freedom, as kids, not as adults, because look at how adults are this days. They teach their kids,
and they let others teach their kids, but the kids never get the feeling of being free. I promiss you, that cry or emotion you have experienced due to lack of friendliness from a
neighboring ****, it is an instillement that sparks up many motions of your life to believe into bizarre things the world portrays. For myself, I find the starting point of my
when I first breathed my first sensible air, when I walked in my own two feet without guidance as to where my eyes were seeing. How can a mind be so tender, lost by the misconformed
train thogh after train thought. That is why I find schooling such a fascinating ruthless thing that can be broken into several fashions as to why is that case. But not even
reason to fashion an answer that I know will and is definetly can be viewed to abhold a societal dismark of "wF"is wrong with that guy's mind. He must be **** casing a storm to
bring an ideaology of thought or some **** religion, but that's what so funny to me. I find everything in life comedic, non concerning except at times if I feel similar to
someone adjacent because that is their essence in my prescence, and I feel the need to comfort it, to bring back the importance of that self. The part of life I find so comedic,
how bits and bits and everything with **** have all so many fascinating
things to learn from, the progression of one's mind never attains self worth in the world with something interfering. That something interfering for example, is me personally
writing what is can be taken as pointless and presenting my writing to you how I say I do. But did I say how I am presenting this writing, absolutely not. So brings the funny,
that school teaches the aspect of disfigurament of a person's essence. This thing is a complete oblivion to everything and anything, that because even though I did not specify
how I tone myself on this paper, there is the predicament to assume that I am very angry deranged person who but pokes charasmatically at something no one can grip, because he
is portraying me the image the way I was bred to see. But then it is so **** funny, you can also take my words describing
all that I intend to explain and stick them against me to simplify your circumstances as to the causitive feeling your experiencing, and maybe the confusion that I am creating
noting a significant point that I do write intentionally without any figurative wording, just simply talking about this to evoke a presence of an essence within you that is hindered,
by what type of **** everybody is wearing, where they are starring, who is ******* and adoring, and who's simply the **** because they don't fit in a deranged group, developed by
ego-centric level stingers, who but want either good for you, or it is the drive to profit from you everything. That is, words blah blah, can take stroll
on one day's role and make no complete sense, and all they did were live the sense of a tangled mind that fostered on what has been in some form, taught, over
what you can call a lively existence, considering how much traumatizing headaches this could cause, and resembled among a group of similar constituents with similar reasons
as to whatever the situation might be. I could point this out within one sentence, but it wouldn't hold any deeper understanding of this essence, so instead I decide with all
my reasoning and tremendous experience that even to some, even at this gritty expertisians who grease up the world to guess everything based on study and reasoning by other humans,
who believe all these ideas are shifters to the mind but always stem the relentless, functioning without any perspectives open to the idea that mold humans into one spatial and far better
so called community, which in all it's case has lost the essence to preserve the self without a ***** on the back. That ***** of course is the communal ****, that builds from a
trigger of words, then they teach the brain as if it is known how to be as a functioning unit. The amount doesn't matter, the amount that is thought brings hope, but the most
amount to the self is the function of you, like I feel I function amongst anyone because I have come to terms and realize what really important things I have learned from my life.
My life to some is gripping, only because it sounds unbelievable, but of that life I found the same driving forces that drive madness even today, and has been reaccuring for as
long as some form of expression has been. And in all humiliation of humanity, or as I consider it digression of being self around the bounds of comfortability, it has been
a grand experience to see many a people transgress from the point of my meeting them with a continuous contact to the point of now, and then, and future plausible. But then
and future plausible for me stand out as notions needless of evocations due to the fact that the self is a dwindling factor hung by a rope to swing the way the self first portrayed
to me, and then to the direction away from the first encountered mind. But in all, without senseless ignorance, I do understand these things are studied for a reason, for a reason
that is workable to be as they are for some variables do affect person's in many different way. That is why, the sense of one roof and too many aloof is but a big spoof. With
sensibility, how can forging something into your life help you to achieve greatness within self to portray it in a manner plausible. The only way is as a current flows, so do
the gulls.



where do you. . .come from. . .so many leagues unbeknownst among my dreams.
life is never what it seems. . .until i met your eyes.. . that built
my stongest implication, dire in desire to live a life inspired. . .
but then so is, to dream upon what tends on building motivation. . .
life is beautiful sensation. . .
from the first rainfall with you meeting outside spontaneous realm. . .
we fought the solemn wind to calm our cumbered spirits. . .taking flight,
fighting what might have been. . .semeless to even entertain. . .lost in
each others warmness. . .everything we built tended harmless.

now see how we have. . .related to each other's hearts. . .left the scrutinity
at obscurity prolonged on scale of mirror. . .where it has always belonged.
now it's just time darling
i promiss it wont be long until our roots bind the maximum strong.

from even across the plains, and mountain long trip stains. . .i feel
less pain. . .from what's the phrase non loose then gain, consorting time
absorbing each other's essence in rhyme.
the deepest of sensation of you. . .the meekest of me, makes me be the simple thing
that i've reconnected to . . .to realize, the sensation of you. . .from our first
encounter, i felt deep into your eyes. . .what agree's none behind with lies. . .
you evoked the deepest motion within my sphere of emotion not to betray myself within
this realm and dark frivolous potion. . .for my first set of emotion set on your tone behind
this potion. . .

i face you eye for an eye of every day until i die, but will ever will i die. . .not with you
never. . .darling angel, angel you are my expressive tone to call you so. . .nothing more
is the essense of you that you seem to implore, how busy life must be. . .we need feel free
to good ridance from this fee that life doesn't instill our good griefs beyond simple joys and beliefs. . .
for simply darling we are each other's heart beats, if it's simple smell of you
i will carry out my deeds in hell. . .beneath on hearth this earth, where all of us have been given
birth. . .but sent to spend what is driven by multipolluted cord, the time in blunt approach from
the thing that planted our roots. . .

how i feel you is simply too rich for some dirt to enrich you. . .i simply love and cherish
every bit of your essence, it has lifelong presence that even doing what they call
reminiscing, can't surpass living without missing what they have been reminiscing. . .
i cherish you beyond what little faith can teach about having bigger faith, when all my hopes
ride faithful slopes without elongated stops and rope bearing hopes. . .
my life i see to the extent to remorse only what some feel beyond scope of too openly. . .
but how can i retreat on what i can't stop to feel to protect you from, to their heads we are getting closely. . .
how in the scope of your first essence, can i give up to give way to ruin such pure essence. . .

i understand the world makes a feeling for such pure feeling is counted by blessings. . .
and in order for us to make it, that thought i feel senseless baking . . .constant roll of assorted
reasons for why we bleed to them treasons . . .for how can i express, how simple love doesn't
just digress, or something with time you invest. . .it's simply have been a joy of building
together a foundation for our nest. . .**** the rest. . .**** the pest. . .the world is the best
when sleepers are put to rest and the spark of commune are dwellers dwelling on these mischivers'
locked up chest. . .
to find out that darling. . .you simply are a joy to give me whole, that i'm not uninspired troll
reluctant to breath beside the one he placed his greed upon. . .or her, or it. . but all the essence
is closed and beat, by some known with ideals humanity can't consider too farfetched to bare to grit. . .
and sway to the essence that i hold in my glances. . .are as simple as these branded constructed norms
that most tend to manipulate and distort to one contorted form. . . .so all can bend into one socket for 365
degree view that most tend to agree. . .but never really see.

i know it's many there with this essense around the breeze of an aura, that simply are stranded too far apart by such horror.. .
to relent their essence with their prescence. . .to whom Barbarians find the essence is planted full on messes.
but how can we relate to such things darling. . .when the first glow of your essence showed me life full
of memories by the smile in your eyes, glowing beauty of any sort. . .i feel the world will someday . . .
take flight. . .in my way, but **** that. . .i'm to speak when my message is too simple, provoked only by the
thought, "protect the world its miser mother has been beaten". . .i can never relent, the message that is never
but to contradict what's life has not eaten. . .because of the times put to squares, living life, fostering a step back, into recluce. . .these biches wont even
say cause their too ****. . .to figure out that there's a worrior to stump them pleaded sheets out of wood. . .
i say this out for your sarcasm, elongated this song a bit to give you big ******. . .so when you repose, you
think nothing but what side are the pro's. . .and enter them into oblivion, grasping each by the billion, how
can i repose for i know, without one word it is and has been always come down to the special chosen million. . .

because my darling, i feel the miser that this essence in me you inspire, is up and target for no good. . .for
these pleaded fockers granted themselves unrelentless priveleges for centuries, changing diepers to giving
blood diamond marriages. . .riding on what they call prestine carriages. . .oh what,you don't recognize this
what the world has come to building from everybody's demise. . .feeding on high rise. . .splitting cots in the
rots, most alluded with plots and continued building upon the essence of you, keeping you stewed, brewing up a flu. . .
to this day when i met you. . .
will never cease your memory by only that it was circumstance. . .romance among thieves denying our chance to dance. . .
with one glance, their world just plopped a chance. . .for i know they know who im refering to, without a glance
i'm sure they feel my stance just to look **** eyed puking. . .**** blocking their world to rocking, while else where goes to foster under
this ugly monster. . .stooped on a porch ******* their air, without any underwear. . .haha must be due to how
much pull goes to their hair. . .how do i, they feel ****** diddlidy ****, what, is this person a human or a
restored frame of mind living. . .i can't be what's in my eyes to be believing, but i simply am retarted man. . .
a ******* rough psychological fighting bluff, to them i would. . .but trust me, how could i in my life, i
never could.. . .fall to false pretention, that life is a great invention, that my desire's are for simple
hires. . .for i know my life evolves around that which your first essence, darling, we built stronger everyday
to our future of what we call present. . .

life with you, i simply can't resent. . .but figure out what's best
to make what we don't need to make. . . because the essence uproots life's shrivel of what they call romances. . .
rooting upward from the seed we planted on the day people deside to bleed
all over the notion, that this emotion they conquered stems from shot of elixir handed down from the heavens by
some they call cupid fixer. . .relentless, they push through many dances. . .all so strained and constricted by many
glances, restricting their free essence to feel in whole their life is shot down by simple messes. . . .
but you, none taken, broken and mistaken. . .how can simple things be so. . .when you know my essence for you is
far greater then what one instance can remark for the whole, i feel simply. . .protect you from their hole and
bind you with my essence that strives in whole. . .even through tormenting lonely dances. . .when i saw the world an ugly form. . .
nowhere to want to run to, or feel
resentment.. . where's life going to go. . .if my essence in a whole feeds you. . .away to their
mysterious goal. . .i wouldn't have the patience to ***** their abnormal pretence, as if life is sweet with
such mysterious fowl. . .create little thought to create bigger picture, many aditions just create tensities
among those who bicker, loosing control each time only quicker. . .that's why it's never lesser to speak for the lesser
dresser, or the person they showed you, that looked like he ******* told you, but instead they made the mistake
to grow lower. . . cowering even bolder. . . what **** is the point of that. . .to say it none meeker as if its meant to outcast the bleeker
. . .i'm not that so. . .to scowl like fowl crackhead, loosing self reliance to gr

Hands like guillotines
sever ties
flee fleeting moments
of traumatic scenes
and gay parades
on ink-stained clouds
blushing like mushrooms
tinted by the sun.

Gloomy grammarians in golden gowns,
Meekly you keep the mortal rendezvous,
Eliciting the still sustaining pomps
Of speech which are like music so profound
They seem an exaltation without sound.
Funest philosophers and ponderers,
Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
So speech of your processionals returns
In the casual evocations of your tread
Across the stale, mysterious seasons. These
Are the music of meet resignation; these
The responsive, still sustaining pomps for you
To magnify, if in that drifting waste
You are to be accompanied by more
Than mute bare splendors of the sun and moon.

Bitterness beseeches every
          GROTESQUE
                             Inch    of     me

Thoughts of your light enveloping
my existence in a
         condemnation
of
    sabotaging
                      dreams.

I am the dark queen, and you,
you are my ghost.

Haunting me perilously.

The destruction of my kingdom is welcomed.
        Dismantle
                Decimate
                        Destroy.
Poison me with ANY
                                    Affliction.
I welcome the cardinal sins of my evocations.
Blasphemy of my soul
Awakened and stripped
Of us, leaving me
Welcoming the blackness.

---

This will be the smallest, most insignificant, most trivial,
And most forgettable poetic parable anyone has ever written
Because for once I’ve been wrung of all my deep evocations
I’ve been whittled of my angular description of the commonplace
Of verbose, grandiose trajectories mapped out
By minds I will never exist alongside but I will sure emulate

I have sat down and asked myself, innumerable times,
“Okay, so how will I describe the sunrise now?”
And more importantly, perhaps more existentially:
“What about the sunset?”
What colors haven’t I used, what other comparable thing
Haven’t I eluded those colors to,
And what kind of uncharted, beautiful, spiritually-boggling human emotion
Hasn’t been tapped by this setting star until right now,
Right as I string together letters like they’ve
Never been strung before?

There’s the endless wellspring of my poetic—
Oh, look, there I go, visualizing thoughts and feelings
As a mystical, water-associated apparatus
(It’s my go-to)
For a time more innumerable than the sunrise.

I’m getting tired of it,
And I can’t imagine how mind-blowingly dull it must be for you
So I’m going to try it like this:
I see the sunset again, and tonight it’s very pretty.

But, poet, this kind of routine, boring description
Doesn’t do much for me.
I know what a sunset is, I’ve seen it
My three year old can probably
Get a pretty accurate crayon drawing penned out in a few seconds
And that will hardly distinguish itself from
What you’ve made the sunset out to be

But, poet, from all across the world, from their unique angles
All the aspiring poets gaze toward the same sun,
Whether in setting, whether rising, or hung there in the sky
And describe it as a tantalizing metaphor

And then relate that sun
To a deep, embedding, defining emotion or craving for human connection
As if to say,
Yes
I see the sun that way too
I feel that way too

And then those poets submit their poems to publishing
And watch the sunset as any normal person would
Once they’re out of the mode.
In fact, what’s on television? / Shut the blinds, Dylan,
There’s a glare on the screen.

“Okay”

This poem hasn’t brought itself out there, out to you
As a grand accomplishment of absolute detachment
As a way to try to break the barrier of poetry once again,
To define itself as a new genre, or an edgy statement the author
Very desperately intends his audience ‘gets’
Or even to prove an angle nobody has ever seen or attempted before
Because how I am supposed to know how you think?
Or what you see, and how you see it?

This poem is a message of the ordinary,
That it’s okay, it’s absolutely fine, to remove the mysticism from the mundane
And understand the world as a beauty in itself,
One that doesn’t need the aloof, grand, mystical verbosity of poetry
To be felt as something poetic

In fact, I won’t even leave you to ponder the greater meaning of it,
Of this line, or that line. I will say it here,
At the end, at the climactic and awesome point of emotional delivery
That all poetry intends:
I see the sunset again, and tonight it’s very pretty.



---

The door of a fifth wheel trailer clanged open from across the street, and a man that looked a few years older than me with a shaved head and clumsy stature ambled out of the trailer. He left the door wide open, and on the small concrete patio next to the trailer took a hit off of a pipe filled with ****. He exhaled a few moments later, and let the *** smoke join the cotton tree seeds in the afternoon air. I watched all of this with moderate disinterest, and then plunged back into Buk’s evocations of the old gods as the man plunged back into the trailer. He left the door open.
More activity quickly followed, however, and I scarcely made it through another poem before the noise arrived at my spot. Apparently the man had begun to act reckless, and an elderly lady began chastising him about his behavior.
“Shawn, knock it off! You’re going to break something,” the woman intoned. It was almost a whine really, and at the sound of her voice I was almost tempted to go assist Shawn in breaking some of her things. Shawn replied with odd laughter, and a crash could be heard from inside the trailer. He then stumbled outside, and started behaving like a four year old boy would. He picked up a few things that lay scattered about the trailer, and then immediately lost interest in them and threw them back down with reckless abandon.
“You’re being reckless, Shawn. Stop it.” The woman obviously shared my critique of his actions.
Shawn didn’t stop it, whatever that was, and kept rummaging through things before tossing them about. He fell down as he tripped over a few of the things he threw aside, and screamed “Fuuuuuuucckkkkkk!!!” Yep. He was acting just like a four year old boy; full of ****, vinegar, and conquest right up until the world socked him one in the mouth.
“You’re going to hurt yourself! Cut it out!” It was funny how she kept saying essentially the same things in the same tone of voice, but I was glad at least that her attention had shifted away from material possessions. I mused to myself that some people just can’t handle their ****, and attempted to try and lose myself between the dry pages of a decades old library book again.
The universe must have had other plans for all of that though. The man kept staggering into things and screaming ****** ****** when he fell over, while the woman kept at her nasally whine. Only occasionally was her existence even acknowledged by Shawn, and this was done through the clever use of the phrase, “*******!” After spewing forth a vulgarity he would then resume his parade as ruler and champion of all; subject to only the merciless force of gravity and his drug addled mind.
My peace was disturbed by these shouts of anger, self induced failure, and recrimination, but the peace was replaced with a subtle interest. Overall, I wished the whole thing to stop, or that I had my key with me and could simply ignore the calamity of it all, but since neither of these two things would occur I felt as though I should break from my reading and enjoy the spectacle of life around me. Apparently, however, this other elderly man’s peace was far more disturbed than mine, and he walked over to ask the lady if she needed help, not realizing that he was not solving anything, but merely adding to the production unfolding before my eyes. The man and the woman spoke for a bit as Shawn ran about, stumbling into the trailer before finally managing to step inside of it. The woman mentioned to the man something about Shawn being a diabetic and that he hadn’t had anything to eat today, and then she asked Shawn for the sugar. Shawn’s hand promptly popped out of the trailer and presented a pink box of sugar. He was completely oblivious to the fact that the sugar was really for him, and so the woman then asked Shawn to eat some of it, which brought back a warranted, “*******!” Shawn then jumped out of the trailer, clearing the miniscule metal step-ladder which was placed at the door for easier access, landed, lost his balance, sputtered around on his feet for a second, caught his balance, and then ambled towards the back of the trailer where he tripped over something and fell to the ground, catching the corner of the trailer with his body on the way down.
“OOOOWWWWWWIIIIEEEE!!!!” He screamed from the ground. I felt like applauding, but instead resolved to keep my response limited to stifled laughter. Shawn stood back up, took another two steps so that the trailer blocked his body from my line of sight, and I heard him hit something hard and metal before again screaming, “FUUUCCKKK!! OUCH OUCH OUUUUCH!!!” The urge to applaud came up again,  but I couldn’t disturb the production by breaking the fourth wall between myself and the actors.
“I just…” the lady sighed with her hands running through her hair, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him…”
The old man asked, “Is there anyone you want to call?”
“I don’t know…” Both hands came to rest in her hair at the back of her head.
“You could call an ambulance.”
“I know… Just… Shawn! Eat some sugar, hon.”
“*******!!” Shawn darted back inside the trailer.

Heaps of her across the deserted plains, oily fingers reaching up and over the horizon until all of the numbers fill her pockets, her father worried, and her muses covered with goat-head's thorn. Where does she start to fuse her needs with the weapons in their suburban corolla of lilacs and wanton redolence? It's the opacity in her finger nibs and the dozens of names she felt closing over her legs sideways, until she awakens in the night to take the blood dripping cotton tissues off of her face, off of her bed-side dresser table. She can't even paw forward or undress her wetness in haiku. Everyone she knows doesn't know her. Everything she's seen, doesn't seem to be there for her anymore. That's the trade they told her to barter for, the golden seals and vitamin needs she's gobbling up by the palmful every morning by seven.

Seven for the circus or the mimes, seven for the cloves hanging from the door and seven for the queries that strike back her abcesses and cost her seven by the quart and seven for the plastics. Seven dancing backwards towards a rook or a *****, seven inside her chest playing guitar with David Bowie, seven at the doggerel, and seven for the stitch and the obtuse- only a creature of seven might go for her, in a spot of doves, crank, and soda it is poison, seven is her ***** line, her sexuality, her sinfulness, and her latitude over and over again. Seven makes her want for tomorrow, seven takes tomorrow and throws itself up against the wall, pledging a game in the summer, seven to a trip of caramel and dukes, seven for the prince and the painting of the two of them, seven for the winter, and for the shadows that stretch curiosity past the breath of a summons', seven for the day and seven for the evening, seven scratches her ears and pulls out her hair, seven is the ring and the blue phantom buried somewhere far, far away, green is what's left, but seven knows which way the rain comes and who is going to follow it through.

There is a numbness that radiates on the fringe, a tickly discomfort not even a narrator could let out or down to a name on the mountains near the **** plateau that conquers her nuance, and shakes the both of them to core of the fight. This is not a flag that costs us in coins or in dollars. This is the worry chiseling our shapes and our buttery hips, a stacked set of crazy in a photograph off the leash of only a few. And it calls them to the night when it's only three of us left, until every cord is untied, until every verb is set in its caste, or ringing out to the tremolos of rapture, and the musicianship of pepper-jacked sneezes in the ambers and umbers that although startling, we've all learned to convert our averages in order to swing under the storm, and baby each of us with an elixir of myriad captures, images, and violent abuse.

While the words can yield, and the festivities can hoard each of the simple new experiences against travels of women, and pictures from Mussorgsky riling up soft drinks and evocations towards the center where all of us sometimes will let ourselves, let loose. Something horrendous and cold plugging into the sugars, something quiet, nearly a friend of reminders, crustaceans and ocean making this top-down beach of faces for all to shake and roll with or set forward a cacophony of abuse. Until in a breath she calls for the infinite intuition sheltering her and our window from the pain of misuse.

That is the photograph where we have been looking to live, here is the memory we spent our minds trying desperately to relive in the shade and in the snafu, against the bark and the piano keys treating our rise. Within our skin and our pupils, our silver bookends and/or the mammals we don't use names for but for whom we've been introduced to.

What if all we got was a looping tidal wave sound
A polar sunburn and some wind some rusted out
cans of Burma-Shave™
washed up on a plastic island of castaways
crush crush crush the waters say all around us

salted and dried as weeks old cod we lay prone
waiting for something to change enough to reveal
visible evocations toward our unknown end

at one time we all sat alone with blank paper
a typewriter a quiet settling of the air around us
all around our one desk lamp our flashing thoughts
changes that pushed us closer to one another
uncomfortably tighter
a state of blind containment we called it

our holding pen comprised of someone's shrunken head
vessel of complacent restraint
it came with no brain
only lights out of our control
they yelled "LIGHTS OUT!" and just like magic
we fell asleep right where we laid

adrift we still float with no chance of credible response
the only organic matter our own bodies
in Tyvek™ in plastic or polyester
latex weather-worn and lost its gleaming
bottles that don't scuff like glass

the next day we awake and another dolphin has
run amok gone to a distant place leaving
a tangled lump of chewed carcass
under the lip of plastic six-pack brambles
the sharp edges of filigreed netting
that make up our beaches

holding the layers of rotting animals
which fuel the constant bumping
the nosing the prodding
of anything carnivorous in the sea around us
anything wanting more than its fair share of meats
anything willing to come tangle with our undercarriage

in the cold darkness of singular contemplation
no shade ever other than perhaps a shredded tarp
whipping the back of the un-seeable wind
tapping our legs with its rusted grommets
compelling us to think of a speed we no longer know

how much longer can we continue to have hope
continue to have a lust to linger ever longer
through the terror the exhaustion the exposure
through the horrors of survival
at a range closer than any would like to imagine

don't fall down a hole of your own making
the sea birds laugh down upon us
don't pray for dark water or weather
when you can't look away
can't swim beyond this unmapped mass
this destination

the ocean tries to act like it doesn't give a ****
but we lay prone we listen to her groaning
beneath us a depth of worlds we can't be in
beneath us like around us the conditions are unstable
we wander without intention without compass
without hoping we continue our mission

I will wade through the fire and flame
across the void, against shattering current
an arrow through the water, like so
I shall glide, unwavering, undeterred

I will wait through perdition and justice
against time immemorial, and chained truth
freedom knows no such strength
as that which I abuse in silence

I will serve through temptation and harmony,
evocations of fear tremble 'neath my resolve
my eyes pierce the unimagined veil
of love, loss, and suffocation

I will meet you on the other side of hell
scathed, battered, and bruised
a testament to eternity's inadequacy
in my devotion

be the abuser you want to victimize.  repeat your father’s compelled evocations.  if fat, absorb your mother’s least favorite hiding place.  if not, borrow your brother’s future.  plan it around a mirror.

As a lactose intolerant
     cow whirring lion eye zing
dual (Banjo playing) Manichean
     ("FAKE") keen man womanizing,
faux nymphomaniac wannabe,
     I cone only scream about visualizing
nip pulling and getting a breast
     of Hani La (vanilla),

     this sweltering unfreezing
Wednesday while mouth
     watering chiefly hanker
     for milch of
     human kindness, which titillating
fanciful fandom fantasies
     skinny dipping into soliloquizing
whet dreams har made

     sadly, simply, and sorely realizing
test tickles quizzing
noggin merely figment
     of fertile imagination pricking
prurient potent plentifully oozing
naughty salacious, licentious,
     and felicitous evocations pulsating
hypnotically invoking

     trance send dint overriding
gloriously flirtatious escapade needling
my over active
     thought processes monopolizing
ability to focus attention trying
     to compose joyous leavening,
sans jump starting
     massaging, and kneading

     dormant limp libido liberating
panting allied force,
     which seems tubby
     in axis Sybil for Nick -
     A.Ting, thus Celeb Basie,
     frantically, gingerly, and
     haphazardly kickstarting
***** riot with this feeble attempt

     for a firm hut heave action,
     one docile male member
     devoid of livingsocial,
     hence aye ****
     sitter ring joining

a nunnery, which
     would be habit chilly unfitting,
     and very un convent
     shin null for a poetic ending!

The monolithic columns were beginning to be built that transferred to the transition columns of the period of the 6th century BC. That they would stipulate the fixed number of units of the Doric columns that would be installed towards Vernarth in the transom that would join the crossbars between Mount Profitis and the Iridescent Nimbus, representing a theosophical concept, which when divided into the chromatic ones would materialize, making a commendable incipient epoch of eternal humanity, where the individualities were decompressed from the descendants for more than 500 thousand years in the perspective that would allude to the logos of the Universe, and that very few of their ins and outs were unraveled in the convergences of their diction, before they could be concretized facts that exceed the reality of a theory that is not proven when it is really all consummated. And although everything is the result of a period that will not be reissued again, everything in the Apokálypsis would be of renewal and thoughts with characters of the Factotum interspersed with the forces of the Universe, Elementals and Spirituals that would be teleported in the trans-religious vehicle of Vernarth , with its own intellectual scope that would go back to expressions of philosophical writing but with the grace of the Logos that would redirect itself through vestiges, where there are disquisitions in the claim of Saint John the Apostle referring to that beginning that everything was re-indicated as Genesis was, in which this world has already proven is only the manifestation of a new Universe that would leave the spare one, and would give us the Duoverse full of Light and Hope, vindicating the divine concept in all the voices that were never heard by the fine ear of conception. of the Camera Obscura, where all the voids of the Universe would be engaged in the strengthening of man through super credibility, and d e the support of pre-knowable favors, based on the Logos of hearing everything that is heard, and saying everything that is spoken ..., creating the pronunciation is everything first, and that the word is of significance in what is pronounced in all the processes of withdrawal and insistence that our evidences be resonated, allowing that what remains to be included is the incarnation of a Creator of worlds where no body has been occupied, nor that all the spheres that govern him are in the capacity of the will of empowerment, which is recited in all the multi-evocations, which come from all the well-smelling essences of Cosmic Thought and the Logos of the Monolithic Columns, attracting and magnetizing what “is not thought” to become the verb that resonates in the form of the waves of its creation and of the sense of existence, with the only spiritual spirit that denies all capacity to increase all the plans that have to be made and that are to re-study, under a world that belongs to those who have been humiliated of their will, who have been sullied and who will be liberated in their own exaltation where the words will be lost so that they can later find themselves in the experiment that whips the truth, in the bed of things that swirl in a cosmos that is fed up with being the same and that no one dared to know more than a Peri Kosmous, which of course will give the origin in everything that remained in the accent for those who listened to him hiccuping on the side of a thoughtless tree. Irrational reflections took over the entire heritage of what was the essence of a Christianity that was beginning to be renewed on Patmos, where the experience was those of a very early encounter with the Truth that was a simile of every basis of truth contained in the genome that is woven into the lordships of which it has only the sharpness of facing the self-confidence of the chills, and of the fright when its meaning leaves you speechless.

The muted iridescent leaves the branches of the trees more significant than the cosmic thought itself, which was the light of life in all the voices that cheered him where nothing could find conceptual footholds in the gaze of a sigil of abstract love, only letting the testimony of beings of Light ennoble the capacity of a love that boils with love under every expiration in the darkness itself, as is Wonthelimar full of the flower of Liz that lies in its familiar heraldic. Everything is detachment in the seed that whimsically delivers its fertile axiom in the purity of the layers of the land of Palestine, where thousands of routes of donkeys do not cease to infuse events from the bases of custom and to move where there is no shelter, but there is an illusion that everything happens on Earth and that it is the same gender than itself, almost more eloquent than those who dare to say that everything comes and goes from this earth loaded with Cosmic thought, loaded with inalienable rights where the beneficiaries will be benefited. doubly, and that being a witness to the glory is the same grace that lulls the feeling where everything is Duoversal in a thought that replaces the one that will partially follow the one that comes, for its concepts and true plans where everything and everything will be part of the Prologue of Vernarth in the encounter of a Purgation that utters all the gales of the Meltemi that will pierce all the orchards where they will finally be able to rest on the head of Jakob, and l The fruits of the Faith of Elohim by recidivism will give the world courage by not being afraid of the changes of the foliage, which are from their own repose in the garden that makes them ascend, which abstracts them in the predominance and in the shallow laws of a Occultism that is associated with universal ideas, that puts names and pro-names in powers that are only subtracted with humility in the echoes of personal power, and in what their foliage radiates, that with the piece of a commemorative arrangement of Lilies, now nothing It mattered as a conceptual universalism, without the axial that rusts in the tendency that after its numerals running in different directions or senses, when contemplating itself from a ruler of the cultural word, being intelligence that transverts the dyes of knowledge in the Greek or Hebrew gnosis, that Vernarth or Etréstles could never take back the barge that took them from Sardinia to La Spezia, or that whatever it was like from a sequence shot could be duplicated with the hidden part of a Duoverso, to always have a substitute brother, and that he does not lack when the effect of his occultism is going to emerge in the Aramaic voice that makes the walls of the oropharyngeal trunk creak, with the thought that it makes an elixir of generational life, when the force that It propels a complete involvement, by shaking all the spheres that were anodyne with a new gesture in a dawn of Eternal life.

The category of anodyne value is that what collides with the solid elements what could be in the new essence of an elemental rebirth, and of occultism that only transgresses the ideas that are proper to those who rectify a greater degree of physical forces than move the world for the minors who sustain the microcosm, before a micro thought that was sometimes more contemplative, of what its inheritance as a software perfects, and that has to be descended in its hereditary integrity as "Inheritance", devoid of any individuality that makes an omen the real estate of the anhistorical sense, perpetuating the anhistoricism that refers to a denial of the relationship with history, in the historical advance or the custom, such as the frequent criticism that the facts reveal a nuance of weakness Where would Alexander the Great's record change, if he had been protected by Vernarth before he was consumed by malaria, or had been abused by his own commanders? They have a trophy of a fever that offends further from everything that is ignored if it is not a real argument, and may have lived many more than the same context of knowing or ignoring what happened, that is why their anhistoric polytheistic-social will describe the vision more adjective of who detaches himself from his history, and repairs in history itself the secondary planes where only a submitological discourse would take him to the source of the timeless Macedonian seat.

It's academic, as they say,
These evocations lingering,
As I and I remold the clay,
A bold offensive, stolen ring
Of Adam, Eve and human vice,
Exposed in rhythm on the grass.
Cascading willows, wind and spice,
The reaper makes his steady pass.
Cassandra sang, Ophelia too--
Good words are always hard to find,
Yet somewhere must remain a clue,
A still, small voice that says be kind.
Our final words go etched in stone,
And in the end we sing alone.

The wise man is short lived
embodied in my poetry
even as I strive to give
something towards wisdom’s gain
simple truths are exclaimed
with a voice sometimes shrill
when the statements may offend
those who hide in fiction’s bliss

the fool intrudes upon the scene
stating words that compliment
the intellect of savant's feet
brought to jokes in aftermath
evocations by the clown
attempt to flee from sad frowns
even as the wrongs are sourced
from their hand and not the world

thoughts are drafted that intrude
upon the sanity of the abused
still embrace the steady head
waiting at the final pass
these two souls are as one
a coin flipped head to tail
what’s been said is all true
don't blame the sage if you're confused.

© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190506.

I don’t know what will happen to me after all of this
I was already attached to you as if I couldn’t breath
My mood already depends on how you treat me
Oh God, please help me forget about him

My memories getting blurry; all I have is a sense of melancholy with you
My heart skips a beat thinking about you not thinking about me
I am crying, and my soul is in pain
I want to forget all the evocations, the embarrassment, the aspirations

But why? Why did I fall for someone like you
Someone who is unable to reciprocate my love for
Serendipity? Fate? Scheme?
I hate this world full of deceitful

I am drowning, I can’t breath
Please, please, please, someone please help me
Please let me go, please don’t let me go
Please catch me, please fall for me