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CC Oct 2017
The photos were leaked today
They were of a **** woman with brown skin
Love making as she stared straight into the lenses
I was showed by a man who did not know how to react once I had been shown
My reaction was not shock
I merely stated "That's baad"
I did not know how to react to the staunch cyber-bully who was sure he was doing himself a justice by being so open about his anger at the naked, brown, humiliated, naked, shamed, beautiful
I am shamed by his shaming
I am naked by his *******
I am beautiful by myself sometimes
Sometimes I take the tape off my camera and position it near my bloom
I am not alone in this activity and yet I feel alone in an intimate situation, feel less alone, in a private situation.
Sometimes I work it so that every part of my dark lips are shadowed and my fingers seem to work for a living rather than play
My body is not a string
It is a temple of dark things
It is a ossuary filled with the dust of former lives
It is not to be dangled for cats for play
It has no puppet hands
Or puppet face
It smiles because it sees you smile
And she frowns when she sees you laugh
It is alive
The misfortune you hope her body will bring her is shame
I hope it will bring other people enlightenment
The fault is not in her
The fault is in the malicious, villainous, caricature of man who is hallow and made of maddening bells
Every time you disturb him he rings in announcement "This lady I had once an intimate relationship and she abused me. Here is her punishment."
We are all cavernous tunnels with lights to shoot out of the pins and needles sensational feelings we do not desire this but we must desire to be freed from being owned by this
We all think we're exempted from shame until we are ashamed
There are no exemptions, only more bells
They ring, until background noise renders them obsolete to us
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that from him
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Watches the aged Beggar with a look
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o’ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,
The old Man does not change his course, the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
They move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground,
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,—in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by:
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not
A burden of the earth! ’Tis Nature’s law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught—that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to—sink, howe’er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door,
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity,
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares,
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where’er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
The acts of love; and habit does the work
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
Doth find herself insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness.

                                  Some there are
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear
That overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;—all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And ‘t is no ****** service, makes them felt.

Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency,
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne him, he appears
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
—Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,
Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun,
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die!
Sam Hammond Aug 2018
You know that feeling that you get
After a joke you tell falls flat?
Humiliation unrepressed;
I'd summarise my life as that.

Twenty-one years down the line
But worn as if I'm eighty-odd.
Drug dependant, but still here.
All miracle: No added God!

The classic jokes all told again.
"He looked so cute but what went wrong?"
Too much attention, look away
And ******* with that birthday song.

Twenty-one yet still sixteen,
The pinnacle of gentlemen.
A deviant of *** and lust,
And sickness from adrenaline.

Happy birthday, happy birthday,
Psychedelic astronaut.
Years ago you clambered out
And started having second thoughts.

On hands and knees, I'd crawl back in,
Just like Shawshank Redemption.
This may explain my love of ***,
I shall make no exemptions.
A poem I wrote on my 21st
Franswa Hackett Jul 2010
I reject pride, for I favor disruption
I have become one with momentary obstructions,
Those that dissolve all our mental constructions
For the righteous most often fall prey to corruption.

A flame dies faster when it burns most bright,
Preconceived honor is the ugliest vice,
Empires fall, no matter the height
I saw disciples of Jesus rip the heart out of Christ.

I have not found knowledge in my excavations,
A ******* of ethics has given rise to mutations
If only we could perform the art of levitation,
Darkness might not reach us from the earth's vibrations.

Judge how you will, I seek no exemptions
I have travelled too far from the hands of redemption
Those that reach out, and offer ascension
I prefer to savor my eternal damnation.

Truth is just a simple matter of persuasion
Beliefs stay valid through clever evasions
We cannot endure Godless deprivation
Though the mind of God is a mere quantum equation
Michael W Noland May 2014
I back peddle from a paper pedestal, hoping for the best, hoping you don't intend to inspect the wreckage I have left.

I am temptation at its test, an exclamation on contempt, collecting the regrets to my exemptions under stress.

A misnomer to my bets, against the better judgments I neglect, I'm set in my ways, in lucid forays, I've let from my veins,

and I've slept, the whole ******* way.
Mike Essig Mar 2016
On my Father's death last night.*

Death of a father. Night of nothing. Morning of less.
Anhedonia. A family like the Walton's on crack.
Drama looms. Not a human feeling in the bunch.
Death a hyena at camp fire's edge. Light goes out.
Step up to the grave. Now you are first in line.
Mortality worm gnaws. No exemptions. Gnaw back.
We are but a moment's sunlight. Some not even.
Only lesson. World goes on. Without us. An instant.
Good morning blues. Blues how do you do.

  ~mce
My Name is Shepard: When King David was very old, he could not keep warm


                                        *****­*
ancient kings grow aged, time offeres no exemptions,
hard life body, worn from glory, battle hoary, many women,
his story was not an allegory, it was allegorical story retold,
a poet loved the lord, sunk to sin, pride, yet, always asking why,
for all kings have boundaries, limits, even offenses unforgivable.

his psalms depleted, his eyes rapid failing, and the warmth
gone missing was not from his body, that but a side casualty,
his eyes were to mountains cast, wondering whence will come.
a warmth needed live forever, knowing full well no such power
exists except his Lord’s lasting embrace, their joint, last verse.

                                              <>

My name is David, born a shepard boy, dying a king, a human saved
by the hand of the Lord from the paw of the lion and jaws of the bear,
gave courageous trust to slay a Philistine giant, the greatest gift?

To pen powerful words that long outlived my actions and misdeeds,
a gift transferred to you and you, a certain knowledge that truthful
writs, will be your everlasting scrip and scripture, a name well recalled, poems of praise, songs of lament and sorrow, lyrics of wisdom, even those of mistakes, errors of sin, asking for wisdom for the greatest bravery, to ask, and greater still, to give forgiveness.

the warmth I seek will arrive at last, as the watchmen recite my poems by candlelight to me, as I ascend to meet my maker, the candle giving both heat and light for this is the dual nature of human life, this balance striven to leave our ledger level, letting our history be an honest reflection of we we were, who we hoped to be, and the record giving the warmth of our human truths long lasting.

                                            
When a Jew dies, a watch is kept over the body and tehillim (Psalms) are recited constantly by sun or candlelight, until the burial service. Historically, this watch would be carried out by the immediate family, usually in shifts, or the Burial Society.  When my father passed on the sabbath, in the hospital, my job was to guard, watch over his body, till night fell, and the Sabbath ended, so the body
could be moved.

“When King David was very old, he could not keep warm even when they put covers over him. So his attendants said to him, ‘Let us look for a young ****** to serve the king and take care of him. She can lie beside him so that our lord the king may keep warm.’ Then they searched throughout Israel for a beautiful young woman and found Abishag, a Shunammite, and brought her to the king. The woman was very beautiful; she took care of the king and waited on him, but the king had no ****** relations with her” (1 Kings 1:1–4)

https://www.gotquestions.org/life-David.html
Your being used by subliminal clues
The media leaves you
Lost and confused bemused
By topics using our labor for profits
Government been aware
Straight truths no dare as i stare
Down into the valley of darkness
Killed off the old me but theres no carcass mark this
The day and age turned the spiritual page
What i saw my soul got enraged and engaged
Into a mental state of mind
That the average couldn't understand
If i told them mines
Dreams im speaking on
Everybody around me a mime
Silenced brains make for an easy drain
Got pharmaceutical drugs
Pushing legal *******
To the grain
But dont want ya smoking marijuana
But if i smoke marijuana
Then im a gonna
Loading penitentiaries to profit fat greedy wealthy
Elitist im sick of this
World we living since the first planted sin
In the garden Of Eden
Who do you believe in?
Is it Christ Horus Allah or Buddhas teaching
While they got books placed
For you read in if you in
To the problems that arise
Youll see the got us hypnotize
By the idiot box droppin' everyday
Delays say we on our way
Up but its going reverse
**** the curse the struggles getting worse
Sooon jobs well be in a hearse
And replace by robots
Industrialism was really meant to be a prison sharpen your visions
Maybe you can see the decisions
Made by the whitehouse
Pushing us closer to rfids if you don't believe me?
Check all over ya cars is chipped
Debit to credit cards chipped
Animals chipped electronic devices chipped
Now they trying to get us chipped
Fools tryna play God end up on the side against all Odds
Play the game carefully yea
Its like moves of chess or monopoly
Taking all properties
How is there is price on earth
When everything in the open is free
But then came along man
Yeah i mean demi god fallen angles
Giving mankind jingles and dangle
With unknown spirit cuz they fear it
Ignorin' instincts causin' trama to grow
But rather follow cash rolls
Only to take bad toll
Down the valley of deathrows
Add the bottom of the abyss
It aint no shadows just demons that flow
And go in and out ya temple
Mankind soo simple
Thinking they better then universe
But nature always wins just check rhe curse
God showing creations like roses sprouting up out of cracked concretes
Lets me know humans already in defeat
And build over just fr it to happen again
We waged with sin soon to end
Cant wait til the world crumbles
Watching how many spirits tumble
And become humble
Beg for redemption
But God will reject your soul aint no exemptions
Whooaaa
Adam Kinsley Jul 2017
How many more unarmed people need to get shot by cops with no repercussion?...

How many more times will a cop get 1-4 years for involuntary manslaughter instead of second or first degree ****** when the prerequisites for "duty" directly contradict the plausible notions of involuntary manslaughter?...

How many more times will chiefs of police feed you the story that they were unaware of internal corruption which took place on a wide scale for decades?...

How many more times will a cop's ****** case get thrown out in the name of 'self-defense' when there are a dozen or more bullet wounds in the deceased victim?...

How many videos need to be released of cops tasering or pepper spraying people who are already face-down on the ground, handcuffed, with no ramifications?...

How many more times will witnesses to police brutality and police ****** (or murders conducted by politicians) 'disappear,' or 'die in an accident' before the trail?...

How many more cops will **** women with no charges before the American public cares?...

How many "internal police investigations" or internal government investigations" need to be conducted with no result before the American public realizes that police and politicians get special treatment or exemptions from the law which they create and "uphold"?...

In antithesis, how much longer will someone get life in prison or the death penalty for killing a cop when that same cop would get ten years if the tables were turned (Given that the policeman or policewoman is even convicted)?...
This piece, of course, is free verse.
urushiol Nov 2014
Surround sound silence after a freshly fallen frost, no footprints
Pressure building in ears
Cacaphony of heaviness
The single goose gasping for recognition as his flock ***** away, no forgiveness
The slug victim to its own slow speed, oozing and leaking onto the sidewalk
And every passerby indifferent, no exceptions
The plump squirrel wastes away in the midst of freezing damp grass but the sky is clear and bright, no reflections
Pause it all
Float those leaves back from whence they came
No exemptions
And grant me the pleasure
Of one last lifetime
Before the sun bleeds away without inflection.
paodje Sep 2016
Archivist's notes: This should be read in the ancient style: aloud, with lights and displays depowered. Permission has been granted for the lighting of candles (see oxygen rationing exemptions). Dedicated to the search for New Earth.

~~

I dreamed of you yesterday, and I awoke to tears of joy. Though you are not yet born, and we shall never meet, I know I must send this to you.

I have a name, and I am young. In this regard, we are similar. I write to you mostly because you cannot write to me. I have questions for you, but I lived many centuries ago. So I must do my best to think what you might want to ask me and try to reply.

Here, the ceiling, everything, is filled with openness. It would probably be quite scary were I not used to it. I wonder what is like where you are, and if you are afraid. Large hardened plants tower over me, ten times my height or more. I run fingers along their sides. They watch over us. I suppose things must be very different there.

The place where I live is complicated to explain; there are many people living here. I feel that perhaps you might like it, as I do. Oxygen is abundant where I live; you breathe and there it is. Not just here, but everywhere. Some people complain that the air here is not great. I do not mind.

Do you know what animals are? I suspect that you do, though I worry that there may not be many there. That makes me feel sad. There are many animals here, countless wonderful creatures. I like to look at them. They feel alive and free and full of hope. I am not sure if I imagine they feel that way, or if they imagine I do. Anyway, I think we feel the same.

I have a secret to tell you. In my dream, I saw where it is you are. That is why it I thought it might be scary. It was a metal tube, way up in the endless blackness. Though I know you are not there yet, I did try looking for you. Standing out in the green, I looked up. but you were not there. The small feathered ones sang.

I know you are there, regardless. I think of you as a friend, and I hope, I hope you find what it is you seek. I hope you are with a friend. Friendship and hope will surely not be eroded by the countless ages.

I know I will never have answers to my questions, but there is contentment in the asking. I do not know what will become of me, but I think of you, and I am glad that I may be remembered by a friend.
Giavana Apr 2018
Can you erase a face of the past
can you leave that look in the dark
will you ever put that person last
or will you always feel that special spark
someone so close and special one time
has turned into a simple poem or rhyme
was that really all that they meant to you
or can the rules of love be bent for new
are there special exemptions
or certain redemptions
i was never taught how to feel love
or how to let it go like a soaring dove
should you release what you cannot hold
before it turns so cold and old
or should you keep what you maybe can fix
try and build it up like a stack of bricks
so many different twisted situations
will your choice meet the strict expectations
or can you erase a face of the past
can you leave that look in the dark
will you ever put that person last
or will you always feel that special spark?
Mitch P Nov 2018
I am under no illusion
So include your delusions
In the things I love about you

I believe in mistakes
and redemption
When they are founded in love
and intention
I believe in exceptions
and exemptions
Because no one is perfect
Michael Marchese Jan 2018
The me revolution
Is patient and passive
Inside it amasses
A gathering rage
In a riotous tempest
At bay, kept away
From the hubris-imbued
Alter egos by day
The mundane and in vain
Solar-powered display
When they do not see life
As a precious resource
And they only know peace
When it’s taken by force
Of the choosers’ illusions
And terrorists’ wars
Tax burden exemptions
On white, sandy shores
That to most appear deserts’
Oasis mirages
To me they are merely
Blood-splattered collages

On checks for the OPECs exchequers in
Texas
And Brexits perplexing new nexus of rexes
Whose tax is so lax that it’s stacked on our backs
And the hacks get away with their cyber attacks
Until crash goes the system when viruses spread
I just upload the ones that get stuck in your head
Bryant Aug 2018
You are a crowded intersection
Ebullient bloating, churn
Bustling with acquaintances

They know your name
Know your way, but see you mearly as an impass
Navigated with neither choice nor decision
Route without resistance
Path of least conviction
A jumping of point
Endeavors formulated; yet your corridors are never considered

No exceptional exemptions
Chimerical observers,  are shuffled and thumb  Fulminant prostration; muddling insertion
Maudlin automaton corral

An adverse opposition, preferring to evaluate you at night
Your gaslit candescence reaches in all directions
Ebbing lambency traversing space
Conveyance of curious possibility

Enveloped in your vacancy
Swaddling spances; rampart wrapping
Quarantined and completely mine

Somber meditation tranquility
All of my substance settling to a manhole center
Shedding all my persistent memories
Unencumbered relife; unfettered elation
Ravishing beatitude exaltation
Distracting detraction
Time abstractedly trickling away

Disecting rays of light clutching the arc of the Plutonian horizon
Stampeding hordes in infinite single file lines
Sieging you from every direction
Like a colony of ants disintegrating a discarded carcass
You are gone
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
i sometimes find myself facing
a recollection...

having acquired English...

....
      ich bin spreschen bauerdeutsche...

bindestrichanfälligdeutsche!

it almost feels like...
i don't exactly knows how it feels like...
but speaking quasi-Saxon is
worse than speaking with
a Berliner's exemptions...

peasant German...
who or what?
the English language:
peasant German.
and i speak it prior to expecting
the natives to speak it better
than me...

yuck...
******* on a lemon
becomes a less trivial take
on the grand gamble of
getting lucky within
the confines of karma...

    English, as a language...
i'm pretty sure there's
hoch deutche,
as there's niedrig deutche...
but saxon deutche?
untere von die niedrig...

then a second recollection...
i have to...
i don't exactly know why i have to,
but...
   i have to,
i hate the fact that is borderline
quasi-...
                 the sun is shining,
the birds are singing...
and i am without a desire
to do so...
  
               but my exercise of
obscenity is...
somehow...
                   obligated for reasons
per se,
known as required, 100 years from
the current year.
In the first century of the Lord, the retinue of Wonthelimar entered the pavilion of the space of nine hundred years, where a retrograde period ceases and is disturbed. Here in Sfendoni's Speleothemes, the carbonated waters were purified in a state of total purification of the nine hundred years that it would take them to reach Patmos. But everything happens expeditiously and without any kind of outcome in the states that refer to delaying purification. Only the Logos of God carried them certain and stable in their temporal mechanical intrigue, surpassing what phosphorescence cannot cross in a vacuum without a Gehenna that pursued them as a consequence until the last day, and the graces of the labyrinth of the Logos that were He went in the cascades of gibberish and comfort of the seraphim who escorted them for these 900 years with the help of the Kyrios and their magines.

At that time, the breath of the Vernarth Rhema was imprisoned in the mansion that dominated the child of the Sfendoni cave, united with the Kyrios, designating them as the only guides in the nebulosity with a word of sharpness, who walk through the light wind of eternal night. . Here the Gehenna will try to convince them and lead them to the exceptional creatures everywhere in the temptations assigned to them, amidst storms of blows and resounding ultrasounds that echoed from the idiosyncrasy and from the folds of all those grouped travelings with the cross in their hand, at each intersection bounced the plasma of the ultra-world that he knew well about the Wonthelimar. The spoils of shadows gradually became visible before the victory of those who persist in the vanquished darkness of 900 years amidst bones and ultra-earthly roots, and autonomous laws that were imposed on the just.

Vernarth in this thirty-seven parapsychology, before arriving he felt on Patmos that 900 years had passed, but liberation was becoming superior to the slavery of unnamed eternity, with the Chiroptera specimens that were in charge of fleeting on flights to make them creatures like them. but as semi-human capacities, to meet the only begotten, after overcoming the Logos of the primordial one that resurrected them hyper-oxygenated, where the domain of all extreme and dynamic confusion is found.

Wonthelimar held Marielle's hand tightly when he wanted to escape from the prelude of the surface that made them temporary captives and rather closed the eyes of those who were fatigued by not being able to follow this holocaust. The Kyrios like Adonay asked the Seraphim for help in rescuing the imprisoned confessors, presumed of wisdom, but not of salvific origin. Here the Souls of Helleniká and Trouvere appear in the final section. Everything begins to normalize, and the desire of the powers became more diligent for those who felt renounced and exceeded this quantum time that evaded them by going demartyrizing, but insisted on the last addition of who went back and forth thousands of times to Bethany, and vice versa through these nine hundred years. Until an Alexandrian follower appears singing for the beginning of the end of the 900 years, faithfully following the propaedeutic of a woman who in the future was to be assumed as all those who would be immolated before Patmos arrived.

The nine hundred years were hypnosis and biofeedback in the efforts that Vernarth made, since he became autonomous from his doctor in Piacenza, from here the emotions for him were of belonging in everything and everyone. Therefore his physical body interacted with others and all his immediate orbit,  in such a way that these nine hundred of the darkness of the Speleothemes commanded by his devotee Wonthelimar, went all with bilocation sets, beings from the ultra world, incidents outside the body that he could sovereignly show. Like his noble and loyal hoplites from the site of Arbela, who began to communicate hovering in his brain function. From this point, Wonthelimar received Vernarth's brain waves, as an awareness of not being inert in the matter of his cognition, which was the predominant basis as Hetairoi with his Quantum Monad. Great attention was reflected in everything to receive each one with his spiritual offerings and requests, and with his gaunt officials who were righteous to him. Here the matter was not the basis of everything that exists, they were sovereign energy fields of the Speleothemes with the Kyrios as mediums in the rectitude and the projections of the unknown arteries that would lead to Patmos, after nine hundred years. Only millions of rivers of blood were spilled by the illusion of those who wanted to finally be reborn later in a prime hour 03:00, this dimension that transported them being paranormal, each one did not experience physical or psychological changes, to the point that Vernarth presents himself to them and tells them:

Vernarth: "the reality of this Odyssey called Scientific Rhema, where poetry rests on human beings and frees them from all urgency, clearing the secrets of reality as teleportation metaphysics in those who possessed a physical body, of which it was not tele carried at the macromolecular level. Namely; Bilocation of the material and spiritual energy is what I have added to you like quantum physics since the electron crossed the dark field where you feel the Torah close. They felt they did not know what to follow or find, but the phenomenon made precognition in my substance so that we can now enter the field of the Eclectic Portal from where I came to help them. The paranormal consequence was understood by all physical phenomena that did not alleviate the exemptions of science, rather it was paranormal quantum theology that led them to that nine hundred-year redoubts to conceive ourselves together in this very particular Ultraworld of Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi. Here we will be able to find with your intuitive and scientific truth this same laboratory of theological geology, conceptualizing from its regressive number that it would complete the nine hundred years without anything biological that makes them not know from precognition of matter-body. Your parapsychology is ours, we are all connected and we are the new mechanics of the senses, that even in millions of years will it take you where to look for them ...? in those that not all of humanity could reveal "
Nine Hundred Years of Darkness
They'll educate you to extinction,
somewhat like a mass migration
or was I thinking 'brain drain'

and then they'll tell you
no exceptions, but the richest
can buy
a few exemptions
for their families and friends
oh
they say that education never ends
but why begin? we won't win
unless we've friends in those high places
that we cannot reach.

If life's a beach,
why
is the tide always in?
Revolute Jay Aug 2012
Fragments passing as compete deep thought
Trailing off the loose ends of stray matters

Tossed.

Caught.

Each unpredictable click of the can opener seems
Almost methodical.
Introducing the overlooked somber molecules
Found nowhere on.
The periodical [table].
The atoms of my mind chatter now inching towards unstable.
If not unstable—then forever moving.
Atoms can be our teachers
Theoretically impossible to stop.
Constantly only describes change.
This wristwatch is my life’s calculator
Taunting ticks, as life’s dictator—
Time.
I am each measured lapse’s pawn
I better lived dreams when he’s finally gone

A penny for my thoughts?
What’s worth to barter?
Over an American dollar’s fraction’s fragment.


Money has it’s own momentum
While consumer goods are in storage
Dust collectors, manufactured to stagnant
Leading me to the phrase
Money Hungry.
A system designed to teach craving, dependence
With a starvation, a desperation
Without a method of redemption

Applying to all addiction—no exemptions.

In America, we die young.
Every heart is a volcano
Too many, too early exploding with red-toned emotions
Every name in vain. We’re all bound by the fearful chains.
Resisting each disconcertion
Life shaking change after change

Overtime draining us, unhealthy blood pressures
Straining us
Unknowingly lacking essential nutrients
Does anyone really take daily vitamins?
If I did, it must include inspiration
Human beings need humanity
Or the poles will rip the seas apart.
Everyone seems to be, even me
Tired of chasing a new horizon

The words of ageless me at nineteen

My generation wakes up to numbly realize
The connection between
Reality and a dream

Has been severed.

Cutting lines to the hope in what this life means.

I cannot accept this fate, I’ll write it down instead
I’m wide awake humanity,

I can sleep when I’m dead.

Again, I find myself in this seasonal panic
What if these are not even dreams? Being
But only theoretically organic.

This planet at times appears a spherical slave ship
The world bank opens
My country’s farmers can’t sell ****.
What about free?
Elders say the day man invented money
Was the day he made poverty

I frequently struggle in every direction
Landlocked in the 1% complexion
Feeling dependent and resentment for the institution
Those times I ask how I can manifest revolution.
Doubt is the parasitic twin of confusion.

I know that I have to know pain,
Humans play with fire, waving so stern

Butterflies don’t ask caterpillars for advice.
To teach is to learn.

In the name of revolution, bring on the burn.

xii.x.xi
Copyright © Jimena Zavaleta 2012

— The End —