Some *****
Are like Faberge Eggs:
Irreplaceable
And needing
Coddling.

there are others like me I see. Lost as I was.
So
What could I do to ease their fretting,
would I be comforted?  No.
Back then,
no.
I refused the comforter
*** outchacom'fit zone
Oh, they be hell to pay,

-----
among the ideas that possess men,
there are tells,
among the men of both varieties possessed by or of
(as you shall see, it may be both) ideas ,
there are tells, twitches and ticks and unconscious daemons sorting
sayings
aphorisms, proverbs,
memes 'n' such.
Confusion sayin'
H.R. Puffin'stuff, that neveh me'nt a thang. Jes't aname anime annie mae, where's
annie mae moved to okinawa wa wa wa

Imps. Pulses of them flow through heare…
(those slips shall hereafter be known as di-sensical-utterences or dsu, in writing. i.e. here and hear, he-are, heare, here is heard hear and means something else, intensionally. We, augmented Adamkind of all kinds, can inject meaning at will.)

commonly on Sunday mornings,
though I doubt the impulses
have a calendar that might map to any ex- or im-
I'm never sure what goes properly with perience.
Prior to the trial, experience is so limited,
I'm going with perience, in and of itself,
perience is plenty. Ex-cepting,
you know, the lessons learned,
those have earned their proper
nomenclature.
Those are experience.
Lesson learned.
Twixt thee and me is no more mix-up,
idiot-syncrecy fused with two-mind
hate of knowing and unknown;
we know what experience really means to us.

We are bound in syncret oath sealed with shibboloths in unutterable names.
As it is written in the law of Moses,

"all this evil is come upon us:
yet made we not our prayer before YHWH our God,
that we might turn from our iniquities,
and understand thy truth. 
Therefore hath YHWH watched upon the evil,
and brought it upon us:
for YHWH our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth:
for we obeyed not his voice.

From <http://biblehub.com/kjv/daniel/9.htm>
Shame that such once breathed thoughts threading pearls and jade,
or was that chalcedony? - scatter when the thread breaks
. Shame, such thoughts, frail as smoke.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,

We think such thoughts. Fragile spokes.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
time and time again,
what I called holy in my darkness, is holy in my light.


Words that lose the sacred salt are calcereous
grains of time, dust memes in the sun,
launched by centuries of tramping feet.
'haps the highest parts of the dust of the earth ever.
Oh,
how the masters love mastery of mystery.
"The old man on the mountain, he knew if he lied."
You, the observer of it all,
know.

"you knew nothing of my work"
"have a think"
"never thirst, imagine standing under knowing that"
Voices, the walls heard, stones speak, historically speaking
happens all the time, a frequency lock prevents it bleeding into now, but that becomes tyranny, believe me.

The ideas that possess men and provoke good works
or big, power-consumptive,

tale-swallowing feats,
those ideas are servants.
lacking any knowledge of good and evil,
such ideas are everywhere,
men who know say so. None of this was done in secret.
Twisted minds twist servant to slave labor. Magi-minds,
high-minded, relative to the belly-crawlers and creeping things,
see servant as tool and teacher. Same idea.
The original ideas we have to deal with.
They were seen to be good, by God.
There are no bad ideas, there are bad actions caused by mad ideas locked to single mindless anger impulses so callused as to appear gigantic,
certainly so, when they are known to lurk under beds and in selfish old men.
"Dark sayings, dear reader, pro fess pro verbs, action words snip "No lie is of the truth" snip
the lie and loose listing truth to the wind.
Who told you that inheriting the wind was like inheriting nothing?
You. You troubled your own house and you inherited the wind.
You came not to bring peace, but a sword…

The good news. Inheriting the wind is inheriting everything that ever matters, all the power in heaven and in earth was how simpler minds imagined shaping the idea.
Idyll minds, the devil's workshop, eh?
Comfort thought.
Who told you desiring comfort was a ***** thing?
Same voice went real deep and whispered,
"What price glory? Eh, pilgrim?"
stop. think

Sweet, for instance,
sweet, as an idea, can **** the man who makes it the basis of his value calculations.
Shame, came to prevent such impinging on subroutines intent on manifesting destiny,
as the sweet little ones imagined forevers in their pioneer-daze plays.
Shame is not blamed for being known,
the lying spirit who spoke with forked tongue,
sweet
little people, please, believe my lie,
there is a reason why
I know

There. Message in a bottle.
If you know what you know.
Messenger is what angel means, right? right. Who asks? Who knows?
No. I know you know this is
purposefully useful for
helping
crazy ideas
come back to some sem-sym-balance beneath the branches of the tree of knowledge, nestled in the twisting roots,
golden eggs, oh, far,
far
beyond Faberge, I must say. These, you must see to believe.

I was a no name worker bee
Yet I had a million bees all working for me
I was a caryatid, house wife, never had the life of a queen
Stole my honey from the wasps with the wax in their wings

I was a comatose burn victim
I could hear the nurses whisper sanctum sanctorum!
They fed me nutrients and cleaned my ******
They either didn’t care or they didn’t think I could hear them

I was alive when the lightning struck
But I was dead by second, to survive my luck
I wasn’t anything special
I was a mass produced individual

They had no names worth knowing
They had no future where they were going
And I never thought twice about what I did
The quiet megalomania of a caryatid

And then my patience turned to rampage
I took a page from Genghis Khan
I wanted the roaches gone
I hatched suburban escape plans
Because my angst was delayed
A generation late & afraid

Now in the presence of the gods and goddesses
And in the confidence of infinite this is
Another power grab a singularity
Another force to fight reverse polarity

I’m all about the lust and not the wander
I am the lingering presence of a long goner
I’m here to clarify the **** of daughters
The spider stink in the breath of fire

If we could **** for utility instead of a performance to showcase our species’ ability
Then we’d be hunted by viruses
The gods and goddesses with the instinct to extinct humanity

Chaos is healthy, its part of reality, essential to symmetry, like night is to day
When life is weighed on a pendulum
Like sanctum sanctorum
The delicate faberge

There isn’t anything to bother with on top of the monolith
I’m shouting mantras from the mountain peak

There isn’t any time to practice with a modern creation myth
A lullaby in a language I don’t speak

I wake to the sound of helicopters again. Ive been sleeping more than usual; trapped in this in between state, not quite awake, yet not quite asleep. I stumble through my days in a haze of hash and dreams. Today i dream that im a man made of television signals sitting on the moon watching the earth and sun die. Tomorrow i dream my skin is blue and made of tiny pieces of faberge, constantly in a state of flux. Being shifts and moves with every emotion, displaying its anguish through skin like a shriveled leaf in the relentless dry light. Or its pulsating with life in its heart. Grinding and passing with an excitedness only matched by two lovers in the embrace of a blind passion. They are alive- the faberge that is. I do my best not to own my cube parts as they do not belong to me.I struggle to find an I. Awake i am numb. Feeling has lost all duality and there is left only "a" Feeling.

I wake up.

Stumbling, drunk on delta waves, animal kicks in. Life easy. **** first. In process of *******. White dog in bathroom with me. It run to window. It escape.

Lucidity returns........ and i am still in bed. Three figures are standing over me. I'm paralyzed and the only breath on the air is a fear that is unusually thick and warm. The mind is wrought with an animal anxiety yet a conscious mind remains- confused. Afraid; it rejects and i....

I wake up in a thick sweat. My breath is heavy and a dull paranoia remains from a night of heavy dreaming. As if moving through soup i push myself out of bed and make my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Im shivering and fear is licking my skin, yet i don't remember ever having any reason to be afraid. I bite my lip and the familiarity of pain reminds me that im in THE absolute. The bleakness of reality begins as my brain starts its daily chatter, soft, like birds in the early hours of morning.
Her majesty Sky holds a blanket of pink and oranges over her chin, nuzzling the ***** of the cosmos, begging for one more kiss from that fantastical night.

His eyes blindfolded by sleep, he densely gropes about grabbing my hand between both
of his.
Enclosing mine own between his Faberge egg of callouses and scars.
He holds my hand as if made of porcelain between his blonde-tufted, chiseled pectorals.
The tufts shift beneath the weight of our hands with each heave of mellifluous breath, silhouetted by pthalo blue lights from the electronic tomes casting their oceanic net about the room.
Chronographs edge further into their rotation, and his tides of breath bear the gentle weight of his hands more heavily about mine.
A dulling crash of sleep furls about my hand - starting at the top and settling somewhere between the tufts.
I begin to wonder if the heartbeat I feel in my hand is his or mine.
As I begin to drift back to sleep with disregard to whether or not I will wake with a functioning hand; a yawn encompasses his form pulling the Faberge egg apart, and shocking a syncopated known trumming through my hand.
A smile washes over both of our faces; in blindfolded sleep for him, and me with an interest in illumination within his maniform Fabrege clasp.

Ask me about *****
at the Pitcher & Piano
a woman sits angular
snow swirls in her face
the Tundra, a riot, an Izba
or a Romanov's Faberge egg
Lean into this moment
the curve of it's being
like a sail into the wind
or the Bering Strait neatly
amongst Icebergs
Canada
Marylin
The Niagara Falls
a Geologist's contentment
a backpack & a tent
ink& a compass
Omai resplendent

* Izba - a country hut ( russian)
* Omai - Mai, the second pacific Islander to ever visit Britain in the late 1700ds who became popular in London's high society

Anomic gloom and arrogant fear
Every invisible rumbling is a machine bent on my death.
Nothing conveys me to power
For I'm left to retroactively question each choice I make
As if logic was absent and I wasn't acting by choice
But impelled to be insolent
By the inner rust and complicated working
Of my meat-and-bones practice run
For my Faberge machine body
             (even as I admit this
I wrench open a kind of window
Into a mostly forgotten dream
Of a conference with some kind of
Goddess)
I'll soon be surprised
With a sudden initiation into reality
Elfin mischief and hysterical laughter spiraling around me in a climactic fireworks display
"This is really happening. This is what it was all about. This is what it's all been leading towards. This is where there's no turning back" it laughs in my face as the agony of endless ****** nearly knocks me senseless and motionless
There are souls caught up in the works and the kingdom of heaven is in disarray as we sort out our identity crisis of species here on profane planet earth. Gaia holds her breath and hopes we do not leave too big a mark when we explode ourselves.

There was not a lot to worry about so
nothing could be held up without it being sold
Faberge' brushed shoulders with art deco pieces
money paid guaranteed immediate releases

The reps had phones to their ears getting the nod
there was a clown's outfit which was rather odd
because the clown was still inside - did the body come too?
or was it to be stripped naked like me and you?

We have lost everything - it's all in the room
there was a smile from a man leaning on a broom
I want my sofa back, my favourite armchair
the bed we made love in where you lay bare

Even your smile was for sale, admired from afar
golf clubs, personal effects, my teeth in a jar

Like Faberge, your surface delicate secrets keep. Your turn guards the only edges in a flash of auburn embers.

Frailty stay yourself; this is no time for tears. Uniform quality of essence pervades your spirit, inviting me to drink.

Your house turns not into itself, but outward at the coming waves, Cheshire in challenge.

Remain within those seams and coal your diamond be, but let the tailor trim and see all that we can be.

This feral jinx, having crested and crashed, lets not the berm erode. This knife is simply for cooking now.

Let the strums stroke nylon in tune, lulling this trenchant wit upon the step.

I’ll bake us both in bread and wrap this sullied soul in warm cotton thread.

he got crucified
and we hide
chocolate eggs?

painted candy apple red
with hinges and doors
and all the décor a jeweler
can make. Strung with pearls;

a smooth oval, standing on
painted golden legs. Not to  
touch. I easily break.
Not to be held. It'll dull

my shine. In a glass house
next to a crystal decanter of
cherry wine. Sitting on a shelf,
the one the furthest from

the sunshine.With the tip
of a finger you can flip my
top. Underneath is a diamond,
a treasure trove, a work of art!

It is a world of randomness.
Photos play in
their digital displays.
Soft impression of
Of wet and salted sands
leave an imprint
of her sacred dance.

Another photo
catches her
soft features
strained in
fantastic effort.
Like a perfect sketch
her legs
are outstretched midair
in opposite directions.  

A gray cement cylinder
with open circles
cradles her soft body.
She is a changeling
that bends with
it’s hard contours.

Switching with
a finger’s flick,
finds two black ropes
that hold the hopes
of the young dancer
hanging down
unbound
as she is.

With the fierceness
Of Artemis
this bare foot goddess
sweeps her feet
across the
white winter grounds.
Her steps are
hot enough
to melt the snow.
Later she
enshrouds herself
in a transparent veil.
The melody does not stop.
She moves
like the figure in a  
faberge egg music box,
never allowed
to rest until
she breaks.

Beautiful and powerful,
she blooms like the flowers
her admirers plucked
to place pink petals
at her feet.

She is eloquence.
Arms outstretched
to open the doors
that lead to a
warm summer dreamland
which all her devotees
wish to explore.

Folds of blue fabric
fill her tiny hands,
rippling like water
hit by strange skipping stones.
She ***** the fabric forward
up, down, and back,
trying to soar  
with the fury of her dance.

One knee rises.
Unfeathered arms open,
flowing back, up, and away.
This long legged
blonde blue eyed child flys,
a canary in the coal mine
barely concealed
urging us to feel;
Frozen in time
on Instagram
to be seen
and soon sidecrolled away.
A queen like Titania,
fairy winged,
a thing of dreams.
Nature’s surroundings
obfuscate her
transient existence.

Her body bends and sways
with the wonders of
old orchestras and concertos.
Till, eve falls
and December takes the dancer.
The soft swimmer shimmers
in the soon to be frozen water.
Feathers fall from the Swan’s
long lost daughter,
and the well used
dance shoes
refuse to move.

Why Easter eggs on Easter Sunday?
why not eggs made
by Faberge?
I'd like to find a chicken that laid those,
and why eggs at all?

Why not coconuts?

Just questions from
my question bag
feel free to tag me
with your answers.

There's a passenger wearing orange trews,
did he choose them?
and
the girl with spiky hair
is she wearing 'Harmony'?
is she really there?

At times I see but don't recall
that I have seen it all
before.

Serving rabbit stew on Easter Monday
is probably
not the thing to do
nor is picking your nose on the underground,
but that person
sitting opposite doesn't seem in
the slightest bit
concerned.

I suppose it takes all kinds of sports
to make all kinds of different sorts
I wish though they were sorted differently
and I didn't get sitting opposite me a nose picker.

Perhaps Wednesday will lay for me
a Dell computer,
I'll wait and see, cross my fingers, hold
my ***
but won't hold out much hope.

Anyway Wednesday is here,
tomorrow's but a Thursday
another day to lay my neck down
on the block
watch the clock
listen to a crock of....
...****** dooby's
emanating from someone's ear phones,
that's disconcerting
I'm listening too
because like everyone I'm trapped
and that's what trapped people
find they have to listen to
****** ****** dooby doo.

Is this getting there
when we're not
getting anywhere?

More to the point
does anyone really care if
he picks his nose and
passes it off
as one of those things.

He groomed me
as a Faberge painted
in azure, with pearls placed in rows
like lace. Standing in gold

legs, to be looked at. So, as not
to break. But I cracked as mother
hen sat on me. And none put my pieces
back with flattery. With jagged

edges, sharp as swords, I was
***** and dusty like a barnyard
floor. I birthed myself in no
opulence of wealth. Scattered my shell

like raindrops. Flecks of me
on rooftop and trees, blowing
in the breeze. But not to live as
a Faberge'. I'm a scrambled egg.

I will not be a stain
upon the pages
of your four
cornered vile

Nor do I wither
but strain to keep
perpendicular the line
so compiled

Your broadsword words
of audacity flecks
off my shield
inconspicuously

Leave your lectern
note for note
For you cannot rage
without your kickstand support

So faberge your doting dribble
Your sculpture is cracked
saturated in strychnine
and mace

In early april
Maybe march
I wrote a book
A full story front to back
Slapped onto receipts and post-it notes
And I had so much to say
About a little bit of everything
I felt so big and mean
My brain must weigh three tons
Maybe a little more
And every day I ****** liquid gold
And **** a faberge egg
I wrote scripture and law
Grand sparkling things
I'd chuckle to myself
And shake my head
You've done it again champ!
I would've never quit
God it was artistry
You wouldn't get it
I had so much to say
That my pen ran dry

The are thee; that offer the effectual word, as much as anyone,
instead, yea accused of ******
It started out with the idea thyne wanted to be moved, stopped,
moved again, all Faberge as if images of people dancing
about lightly in a circle
However, what you did your whole life, -just did baby the temple, so thee had another one altogether not producing music, as it goes, doing more bad, ie: song is good
The mog god accepts is acceptance, of the lord we know you saw, as for the word your servants, yet, understood the councils of his messengers
Face not the bends on the river's meanderings as if in a  boogie woogie, constantly, it keeps smashing the good up -to a worked definition that is a recovery path
Comprehend this thee certainly, had some of so, to introductions yea. For that right there is set to go, savvier minutes make promises nary but, this, moreover of angel's aged wisdom, adays trial and error... no learning and forebear to others... or perhaps the switch of one's own strategies
Blessed each differ... who owns the tune... the celestial impasse of sorts, tis that we make our way through

.        Grenki Toast

What would Faberge do

if suddenly his bunsen

    abated despite the

    Gazpromise not to

    to close the valve

       before he got

        a chance to

          finish his

             egg.

I would like to keep chickens, ones that lay Faberge eggs.

Betty Boop says, out of the loop? you were never in it.

That's the trouble with cartoons, Da Vinci knew and now
you do too.

we're all Vitruvian men in an artists eye.