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Silence
Painful way

Vernarth describes in parapsychological regression:
Silence shook over them, like the one that massacred them from the “oblivion - oblivion” from the Limassol to the Jaffa section. Everyone believed that they had traveled on the Eurydice, not being so. A ship that came from the Lepanto shipyard supplanted them to protect the Gold medallion anchored in the roadstead, protected by the Christian Gladiators of Kourion, in Lod.

Everyone was calmer when making sure that a great layer of silence overcame them, forgetting, as anticipation of continuing along the Via Dolorosa. The dawn tied him to the Silent awakening near Jerusalem, on a gray and silent day. Vernarth gets up, first of all, prepares them unleavened breakfast, honey, and goat milk. All united for the most critical moment of reviving, especially Saint John the Apostle, who for him would personify before his senses the moment of deafness that he could enter, rather than hearing himself from the Universe such a command back to the Holy Land.

About 3.7 billion years ago the first living beings appeared on Earth. They were small, single-celled microorganisms, not very different from today's bacteria. Cells of this type are classified as prokaryotes because they lack a nucleus (karyon in Greek), a specialized compartment where genetic machinery is kept. Prokaryotes were fully successful in their development and multiplication. Thanks to their remarkable capacity for evolution and adaptation, they gave rise to a wide diversity of species and invaded as many habitats as the planet could offer them. The biosphere would be full of prokaryotes if the extraordinary breakthrough had not taken place, from which a cell of a very different type emerged: eukaryotic, that is, it has a genuine nucleus.
In this evolutionary cellular space, they were invaded by a Vertical Silence that would have to spread throughout the troposphere, the consequences of this event marked the beginning of a new span of the number line, until the consequences of this event that marked the beginning of a new epoch. Nowadays, all multicellular organisms are made up of eukaryotic cells, which have much greater complexity than prokaryotes. If eukaryotic cells had not appeared, the extraordinary variety, so rich in ranges, of animal and plant life on our planet would not now exist; nor would man have made an appearance to enjoy such diversity and extract its secrets.

Bi simile eukaryotic cells, were ringed in metamorphic geological strata, pressing the atmosphere, the air, and the earth, compressing the geological layers and gaseous atmospheres, which did not exist as a consequence of these intense pressure changes by order of the Higher Universal consciousness, with overflowing temperatures and multi chemical environments; dispersing the changes that are associated with the forces that fold on the bank of the which is current Greece. Said layer failures scattered eukaryotic cells wrapped in "Silent Libertarian Material", injecting magma, creating creative prominences on the stifling attached rocks, perhaps only to be a cellular polytheism, perhaps derived from multicellular cellular evolution. ..., becoming the sexed fusion of a great regeneration of Lithophagas species in the region ..., perhaps in Colophon where Homer was infected. Well said presumption would have to create a syncretic elaboration with that of Aristotle and Plato as eukaryotic cells, to start from this Lithophaga flower, which under its rooted roots is in this bivalve mollusk, unleashing the proto-seeds of prehistoric poetic inspiration, in super souls starting synchronously each one in this mollusk plant that goes like this, green and personified, originating epic poetics in the prehistoric and in the human phenotype.

This mega hyper-sensitive cellular complex is possible, given the respect that it deserves to be cited, the innate and spontaneous hyper ethnobotanical and hyper mollusks sapiens, which were conceived by millions of years of delegating us with their sublime creation. I quote here the word Poetry from the Greek through the (Poiein: "Make or Create"). From this vertical revolution, the Silence of the painful way will emanate, intrinsic to the same evolutionary ontological, geological, theological, Scientific, and Poetic-Sacred concept, linked to the creation coming from “Nothing” to a “Whole”. Everything is revealing before our backs, everything is offered before our eyes, everything comes from the soft creative anger of lightning and lightning, everything is consecrated to silence ..., but nothing moves what the whole forgot, centrifuged by the phenomena of atomicity of greater forces of the Silence of the Messiah, praying in constant practice the generation in front of our theoretical faces, in front of our Everything and Nothing of an empty warehouse.

"Silence Awaits Time ... to see, ... I entrust my Being to time" founds the greatest silence ever felt, only heard more than an ultrasound of waves that are articulated one on top of the other in algorithmic chanting that emanates from the "Silence of Mary to her son ”Also to Homer, Aristotle, and Plato attached to the Lithophaga, releasing Eukaryotes. When Aristotle and Plato ripped out the Lithophaga as axiomatic leaders, they revealed the Silence of Creation and poetic anathemas, alluding to their true ancestors who slipped from their bellies like an elongated moraine sweeping their samskaras navels, like tracks that lead their own people in wisdom with a common prehistoric cellular origin.

Ita *** Dolore
Painful way

Saint John Apostle got up in silence, like profuse deafness even of spirit…, all the others were the same, traumatized to feel the stones engraved with fear and pain "Ita *** Dolore". They did not see in colors, everything was gray and black and white between cells ..., like being inside the suffered cell, lost of all consciousness. Everyone confuses their clothes, their outfits, nobody knew who each one was, only Vernarth and San Juan knew. Raeder and Petrobus,  Alikanto, and Eurydice only wandered sleepwalking along the stony road, in the cobbled streets flanked by works erected of sobbing Malaki material, stones very similar to those that Jesus would have seen when following this immaculate route. The Stations of the Cross were marked by plaques, chapels in vaulting, and signs on the way of lacerating and flagellating stops of more than forty degrees of ardor at each step of the feverish enclosed vault.

Ellipse Messiah As a child: “Mother…; when I climbed the stairs ..., I stopped at the fourteenth step ..., in perfect mathematics opening the sky ..., like a sacred aromatic book; Well, I thought you would believe me dressed there! Mother when I went down the fourteen steps and put my last feet before you…, I could see how she sang at thirty-three on a rainy Friday afternoon, clinging to you…, accompanying me next to the stairs that you did not know… "

Ita *** Dolore
Painful way

1st Station of the Cross in Silence
Jesus was tried and sentenced to death in the Praetorium of Pontius Pilate; he will bring silence, in each interval that did not offer resistance from the flagellant whips. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder… ”. The apostle closes his eyes; Vernarth takes him by his arms.

2nd Station of the Cross
The second station marks where Jesus took up his cross and recalls his condemnation. Romans beat Jesus and the Chapel of Judgment which commemorates the site where Jesus was condemned. Here he feels like a child… “Mother…; when I came down the stairs ...”

3rd Station of the Cross
The third station is where Jesus fell for the first time under the weight of his cross. This station is not far from Ecce **** (Behold the Man), Saint John remembers the last Supper in advance, sitting next to him ... he got up from dinner, and took off his cloak, and taking a towel, he wrapped it around …. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder ...”

4th Station of the Cross
The fourth station marks where Maria saw her son pass. The 19th century Armenian Church of Our Lady marks this station. Deaf Vernarth, manages to hear voices from heaven saying: “Mother…; when I came down from the ladder ...”

5th Station of the Cross
At the fifth station, the Roman soldiers instructed Simon of Cyrene to help Jesus carry his cross (Luke 23). ..., "Mother I stopped on the fifth step and I never doubted to wash your feet"

6th Station of the Cross
The sixth station marks where Veronica wiped the face of Jesus with her veil. It is believed that the image of the face of Jesus was imprinted on the cloth. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you covered my sweaty face ...”

7th Station of the Cross
At the seventh station, Jesus wavered under the weight of the cross for the second time. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder ..., I saw the lost mountain ...”

8th Station of the Cross
The eighth station is where the "daughters of Jerusalem mourn for Jesus" (Luke 23:27). Jesus stopped here to comfort the women by telling them not to cry for him, but for themselves and their children. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you weren't there, you were going to get me ...”

9th Station of the Cross
In the ninth station, Jesus wavered for the third time before his final ascent to Golgotha. "Mother…; when I climbed the ladder to find you, you were in front of me ...”

9th-14th Stations of the Cross
The Stone of Anointing believed to have been where Jesus was placed after being taken off the cross. Here he would have been prepared for burial. The Bible tells us that the body of Jesus was wrapped in linen and anointed with oils and spices in accordance with Jewish funeral rites. "Mother…; when I came down the stairs you covered me from the cold and enveloped me with your passion ...”

The 14th Station of the Cross - The Tomb of Christ
Right here Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth, were still deaf, but with slight symptoms of recovery of their hearing. They saw in front of them how deaf angels came to uncover their auditory channels, being their intuition proclaiming them of courage to accompany them with their teacher to the aedicule of their own crypt granted by Joseph from Arimathea. In the Chapel of the Angel that contains a small piece of the rock and that closed the cave of the burial of Christ, the chapel that leads to the tomb itself. It was here that Jesus was buried and resurrected three days after his death. "This small rectangular structure of the Aedicule marks the end of the Painful Way  and Deafness of all and the Whole World
Ita *** Dolore
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!

My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs ***** the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.

The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.

My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.

The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a ***** of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .

The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.

I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .

Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.

Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
zebra Jul 2019
her tongue rattles a smoky gauze
wet lipped licks a velvet *****
holding her slavering heart

tin tin deo

while she finger painted her inside
thighs  honey glazed red
hot as a fever
her mouth pours out of itself
a flagellating tongue    fluent
*** blizzard

tin tin deo

dumb founded happy cross-eyed
her head like a carved moon
swaying asylums of shrieking beds
curved slick as a honeymoon ****

tin tin deo

a storm of purple
blowing wind  of violets
from her warm kiln belly
zodiac    ancient *******
ravishing flame
ruler of ever dreams

tin tin deo
(as imagined by this lumpenproletariat)

When no bigger then innocuous,
     ** hum, happy go lucky
     generic black whole
     sonny and cher full pinhead size zit,
thine pluperfect promising
     mysterious seat of pants whodunnit

     wordlessly wise wedded
     waywardness writ partly apportioned,
     thru totally tubular fluted circumcised
test tossed truly valued throned
     kingdom come emancipation *******,
     released special ops assigned prickly role

     donning spermatozoa swimsuit
owning papas hurtling
     traversing repertoire,
     noteworthy inherent pistol unit
flesh gun firing off biologic
     gum-shun reproductive script,

within zygote, sans courtesy
     squirt of flagellating
     fostering nanobyte superior vicesquad
     programmed fed tidbit,
stalwart sea men meted brooked shield
Dickensian gonadal mutual friend,

     whence gamete extolled finesse,
     (yet tubby revealed
     many a chromosomal trait)
     didst undergird uber reproductive
     up the down staircase
     reinforced by microscopic balustrade,

     yielding one ova Eggland's Best soffit
     rendering (unto Cesaer...)
     **** like magic fusion,
     whereby exiting fallopian tube
     deposition met fertilization,
     hence embryonic initiation

     wrought wondrous ultimately vibrant blastocyst
     triggered uterine settlement,
     ripely channeling
     tree men das transition
signaling ovulation to taper off,
    yet not entirely quit

fertilization triggered secretion,
     analogous quasi
     pollination process, qua gossiped
     biochemical romantic tidbit
     activated via powerful
     ****** popgun "hello kitty" visit,

milky dollop hormone
     exquisite in utero exposition,
     human female body electric
     generated chorionic gonadotrophin (hCG),
official warrant issued
     drafting subsequent surfeit

secretion spured double helix spin off
     flawlessly choreographed
     following impregnation,
     whereby molecular sized blueprints
amazingly graceful processes
     promulgated propensities

     prospecting proven
     (survival of the fittest) atavistic properties
     concentrated subatomic activity
engendered secure ankh cur,
     where wick keel lee reader rabbit
burrowed within amniotic

     filled sac didst outwait
nine month journey,
     a real swell gambit
for mother and child,
     thence bundle of joy
     exited birth canal.
C H Watson Dec 2014
Gross exertion, infatuation
    Flagellating the root
Of embellished insecurity
    Begging for a meal of ashes

Early morning pain, infatuation
    A ****** companion's invective
Reminder of our unworthiness
    As we consort with teardrops

Inquisitor's interview, infatuation
    Smiling torture chamber
Turning idly in hand the implements
    That will extract the truth of our ugliness

Gravedigger's labor, infatuation
    Burying our faces in clenching fists
Knowing our hearts have finally done it
    And sold us out for a smile
Despite love's beauty, a crush can be quite painful. I named this poem in a miasma of self-pity on the subject, so I tried to make sure the title embodied that ugliness by being somewhat unsightly and awkward itself. Perhaps this was an artistic mistake, but I suspect I'll live. Thanks for reading!

© Copyright 2014 C. H. Watson. All rights reserved.
JR Rhine Jul 2016
Lay with me,
Sweet Poetry.

I prostrate myself
atop your holy temple,
amassing desperate yearning kisses
down your strong-legged pillars.

Weaving in and out of your corridors,
through the garden, your hair falling around me
like roots, like falling leaves--

But I dare not enter your hallowed chambers.

I am a ******, Sweet Poetry.

I have sauntered through the courtyard,
never the courts,
I have tread in the waters of your fountain,
never submerged in your bath,
I've danced around the holy fire,
but never touched my flesh to the healing flame.

Are the walls to your inner sanctum made of concrete,
or something impalpable?
My mind can play ***** tricks,
flagellating a million reasons why our love is for naught,
and why my body should shrivel and fade away before you.

I am a ******, Poetry,
and what love and demons I have in reserve,
I lay at your feet.

I'll linger if you'll stay,
sleeping sound at your side,
your breath on my skin,
your body warm against my shivering frame.

Pluck the maiden fruit from my aching tree,
lay with me,
Sweet Poetry.
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2017
Flow in its intricate beauty, in its parabolic slide through an inexact thought,
Niggling here and there as it soars through the rough appendage of reason.
Flagellating the highs and lows of delight and sorrow,
Titivating the realm of ecstasy to thrill the fluttering eyeballs,
Brushing mounds of ragged hurt to bruise the tender, tender sensitivities.
Then soaring, at once skyward, in a quest for knowing,
Scintillating in a spangle of joyous, YES!
To land, exhausted and deliriously happy
In the knowledge that we two,
My mind and I,
Have won ourselves a freedom.

M.
28 March 2017
On the eve of my 72nd birthday
Universal Thrum Aug 2019
Vaguely I recall a dream
ripping out handfuls of nose hairs
the black bristles like bundled corn stalks
filling my palms

Madame can you tell me
what it means?
its all blavatsky to me
Yes, I'm looking deeper
into your magic crystal ball
its shape so revealingly smooth
scraping the barrel both ways
feels worn but still slightly good

how much will this coffee cost me?
Does the girl behind the counter know her *******
are poking through the green cotton shirt
tightly hugging, transfixing
with afro nose ring red ivory skin
handfuls of round large lifted ******* protruding and
mystically speaking to me in tongues, sha la la la,
with the pull of gravity,
the pull of generations triumph and **** animal fuckery
I look for the clue,
for the answer to the why of the hard ******

for to hold this shining example of proportion
to taste her and feel her with every bit of my own
it feels like I would give up everything
leave my lover,
break laws and oaths
yet here I am tempered by the moment,
eyes on a dollar going into the tip jar, i hear her thanks
my girl placidly rocking in a chair outside

"."

sweet home girl brings me succulents
in a dirt birds nest
now sitting in a sunny window sill beside
my mothers mothers christmas cactus,
one alive one wilted
I sigh at the thought of explaining the poetic meaning
regarding photos in frames
and look into the colored glass arranged
in blues and greens pinks and white
clear mother of pearl sheen glittering crystal
scarlet begonias and pink plumeria
among a coastal green auburn mountain river valley
leading to the sea

the fragrance of the cold hardy mimosa tree bloom at night
revived my spirit
after fainting from the heat
disassociating amongst the crowd
packed into stadium bleachers
receiving blasting electric guitar scoots and boots
third octave wails
John Mayer

get this
before the band takes the stage
as the lights go out
a grown man screams full throated war yip
into the back of my skull

I might have slipped into a concussion then

fitting the dose

a man brings me a beer I tell him I don't want
and won't drink, but for a sip
and for a moment I think I'm poisoned
sick from the gas or the slipped mickey
my skin leaks into a cool film
and on the precipice of the shake out
crumpled into the fold out chair
somehow I'm breathing
standing and escaping
into the flouresent halls
and into a white tile bathroom
in a mirror my skin a whiter shade of pale
than the clogged porcelain
on my way out into the streets,
touched by the warm summer air
a louse attempts to fill me in on marriage,
flagellating himself for some unseen ex-wife

I tell him to leave me alone
and the simplicity and elegance of candor
disarms him long enough
for the burracho to grunt
"Never get married.....you look like you should be left alone"

Earlier in the day
I walked into a head shop
to buy papers
the guy at the counter asked if I had ID
I don't
He said he can't sell without ID
smirking with a thumbs up
I dropped three doll hairs on the glass counter
and put the papers in my pocket

Love always, until its sometimes, then its never

but then again,

Cue Kipling
low and slow
Julian Aug 2020
Eyelash blinkered in hubris Rubik’s knight
Elevation of pogrom ennobled by triaged triumph minus the cynic summation of all light
Littoral swank bronzed like starlet fantasia with a Carey mountaintop jeer
Reichstag extinguished blaring sirens of cacophony capers to benumbed Linkin Park cheer
Knells intrepid by quakes of remonstrance staged in histrionic applause
Southern Colonies shifting in Charleston surgical in orderly slugabed dogged laws
Slipshod through ribbacles of rengall zenkidu among the sertivine poison ivy
Grimace at gamboled rivulets of a moribund Vanilla Sky for departed wiseacres of savvy dicey ICE toxic Harvey Dent slimy
A mannequin Marx Ralph alienated the truest alien by pioneering disdain of a hostage giraffe summiting a Swiss Alp
Master of time 12th bradycardia for Generator design parked beneath escarpments of base aphasia milquetoast in killjoy Strickland nickels away from a gubbertushed mouth
LOST legend enunciating the furor of epochs of egalitarian traipse
Trapped by the bootlick of a wrinkle of Van Winkle revolutionary agape
Curved by soliliquy master of belletrist prose
The vogue can’t help but bunt, balk, denounce the remembrance of Lady Madonna pose
We beat the muckrakers of rummaged lisp of culinary suns that the sons of privilege are emoluments to apolaustic zeal first known to transmogrified nuns, before the poppies made the few into many and the notion of an insuperable line of infinity into a spherical nullification of the concept of none
Estrapade engorges the fustilug magnet of the kitsch Kenosha Chicago Demolition drive-by-derbies “once read”
That two kings one Titanic by skin-color dashed dreams the other both the coins of tails eloped with heady dreams of head
Sacrifice shadow dancing with pettifoggery in slumps of aboriginal dances of marsupial rice
Native to extortion gouged blind as Samson exacts lachrymose cremations of Pikes Peak trick-or-treat aghast with fright
Temples raised in 46 years cemented never in the Mumbo Jumbo politics of those lacking the oceanic schadenfreude among queers
That by their exclusion the panmixia of fluid alchemy is dauntless scrabble limited by NORAD notions of Tears for Fears
Henpecked rooster awakens the serfdom of Ronald’s (sly spy) Drugs sailing with dovetails of elapse downtrodden in modern clubs
Drunken *** addict sell-out charlatans berated  by Ingram Angles sent by maleficence are the grubhub of Harriet Tubman torching promising tapestries with rugged rugs
Slinging the bait of fish-hook dimples on freckled effigies of ****** humiliation outmantled by Mickey weight
I thunder a fulgurant explosion against recrimination of white-collar criminals that philander saturnalia in pretense with facetious swarpollock freight
Crooks of tyranny exhort the paranoiacs of indemnity to sunken canned soup applause of a Warhol extortion
Berating my audience with drooling slavers of inelegant tortoise byzantine like an Istanbul dredged with intortion
Mr Deeds is not a champion of BRE Properties nor the pinnacles of inertia, a psychiatric squeeze
My orange juice is not a car chase against treecheese in terminal punitive disease
Soaring with the prosperous tongue against the walloped nativism of pounced impounds having too much fun
I let the other guardians of the order of salvation pivot vitriol in loaded dice against Orangutans of Swedish minted gum
Caesar died for the seizure of Anglican pride of a namesake percolating millenia for Brutus in the Washington Bullets of a conquered Ottawa on strike carnal with Chauvinism in regional divide
Never has there been a more hollow trope than the agency of deep state defamation of a scurrilous backbite of gnashing pride
Lost to pollster tricks of acquiescence and caricatures of a menacing personage Swift on the Riff but never the snarling Menace of a Blondie Biff
I tower above the anthills of conformity of luxury in Jamaican Bob Sled Teams testing the curiosity of enlightened “What Ifs”
Canada Dry for striking people enthused by Rye abides in the memory of reform that skulks the skunks that make every Scudworth cry
Because a Dental Dam damsel living in streets of peril fascinated by distance is the contortion of entreaty in the pasquinade of attempts at American Pie
May the city of a figurative crucifixion burn with the irony of a thousand suns as Wendy’s burgers unload on prejudice with albatrosses of winsome puns
Fixed data interpolated by convenient lies of serial killers who aim for blue skies shanked in Oswald infamy for the imposture of any flashbang revenge against cinematic guns
I blacklist the Zemeckis villainy as a trudge of travesty
Hedged lies blinkered by Batman and Robin puns redeemed by Dinosaurs of Amnesty
Obviously belittled by futures etched by a more honest infinity
Because 88 keys are not a stroke because the infinite bees know the parlance of divinity
Invited lissome taxidermies of Capone against teetotalers of parvanimity of vainglory overthrown
Showers the honest hominist reckoning of a world where neither crudity of know-nothing radical polarization owns every inept baritone
Crusading a secular war because the gubbertushed eccedentesiast spinsters of Santa Cruz deserve a gassy overtone
Torch the SC Pacific Avenue for peace
Let the world unite behind a singularity with purpose in ventilation of Speedman’s release
That antithetical Jacks of many names are wed with the progeny of enduring lists of NSA protection rather than rentgourge Denver PD eager to chaos decimated by the decimals of a region forever boycott and impeached
To the decisive curling of the frolicked Abandoned Pool servitude crass disasters are the sheol of impudent flagrant overreach
Regnant on the turmoil of invented throne
I scowl at the chicanery of Capone’s Chicago sweltering with Kenosha infamy tossing contortionist strippers a vulcanized bone in a DIA Diamond that even 11,500 years of knowledge is surpassed in condemnation of screaming E.T. calling the right home
Speak Now because the reach of forever is God appeased not by a kowtow but a mobilized ambition for Why? When? And How?
History will remember gentility as the kind steward rather than a Disco Demolition Derby of urbacity venerating a seasonal Golden Cow
Hipsters flock with folly to South African extortion for freebooters who bootlick the aceldama of war against the sublime currency of a winner surrounded by thugs
TOO MANY URBAN KIDS ARE TAUGHT BY REDUCTIVE TAUTOLOGY TO HATE The United States of America RATHER THAN NURTURING SYNCRETISM IN PATRIOTIC HUGS
Imperfect in design with disagreement in plainest sight
Sometimes libertarianism with a Democratic twinge is clearly in the right that should believe in reform even when the footloose girouettism is too tight
Yet forestalled for authentic grit the grisly rentgourge of venal abysses knows the countermand against Rand with hyperboles of the clearest *******
The true flock congregates around scepters built not with militant graft but a promenade of sultry dance for the defiant C.L.I.T.
Exercise with the Rock knowing school buses of dogmatism inferior are distraught
Dying dogmatism is a peacock of industry the yeggs can easily unlock rather than truckle with truculent Scottish Rites tasty with Connery Scotch
Defenders of the misleading staircase because of the carapace of Hovering pertinacity easily won and bought
Neither scary nor deliberate streets are rumpus of elevations of unbounded anarchy considerate but robbed by the illiterate
That the delegated mansion will be robbed by the cooperation of the remorseful idiot recognizing his snide mendaciloquence in destructive Roswell Records limerick
Scowls are on petrol and patrol hoping Tesla is a short of bravado too intrepid to sanction free-for-all profligacy in alleys that bowl
To the Emerald Street lie of hypes of perdition rather than merely a seasonal token embarrassment coal
The fossilized future is the irrevocable past because more respect is needed than the ***** of a maskirovka caste
Diamond Lightning in Bhagavad Gita prancing with the delusion of the everlasting mummification of Brawndo ash
Dinner with Egyptsy malingers on tomes etched flippant in integrity and all about the curated snare of kitsch cash
The cache valley of LASER tag shattered like Joseph Smith flagellating the confederate hayday with articulate gnash
Fast & Furious the amused by Suburban subway know the trailblazer trashes of The Stupids’ being Einstein about Boogie Dubs rather rash
Streaking through a Tucker rule the Buccaneers live for the SoulSeek of a riddled ruler benighted of prerogative of Roger Goodell bumping in his Ferrari the tucked serenade of Tool
Wrong band because they linger in the shadow dancing backpages of scandals of Norweigan hourglasses of shameful hush hush Vikings mining furloughs of pulverized anticipation sand
Humbled retinue shelves the ossified limpid droll drool
As the haze of submarines scouting pridefall galls of indolence betraying innocence becomes moral cigarettes of Menthol Kool
Reparations for chappy chapstick games of bowery riches
The urbane needs to read, discern and maneuver against whiplash found in Navi witches
Swapping homes with crack addict legalese an *** to a bronzed party crackling with cackles Home Alone
Knows a toiletry of escape gullible like Seahawks wishing they could contain a fumbled season by Mahomes
Jones methamphetamine paranoiac manure desiccated by folksy homilies of brimstone cremation deserts his flock to abide by a flagging wayward temptress
Decimated by the agency of time his Austin crenellation flounders in grimace of the untimely swoon his covert empress
Blinded by the light of darkness in subversion
Excoriated for the deeds of his permission to demote commotion into only an acquiescent dance with barbed etch-a-sketch conclusion- a half-baked *******
Quacksalver poetaster wrinkled with hatred simpering paranoia strangled by Hendrix abeyance of turgid delusion
Lurid underground Princeton gilds infested with defected dementia in cozens in the fritty of heralded mistress SHE appointed
Sandlot ravens cloistered the bravado of thirst for chosen words scrappy in clawed henpecks the pointless illegal sanctioned to brusque witticism anointed
Lamps of pathway sparkle with coruscated stargazer Winslet dreamy swank illustrious by providence
Engrenage of delopes of pettifoggery identity staggers the woozy dismal day of disjointed wounds on Native sons Denver can’t damage in a lonely campaign for the prodigal bends of Overlook Lorraine Motel bent
Intrepid in gallantry I swoop the scrivello tusked with might
Penetrating the vivid dreams of the serenade of alpenglow daylight
That love might rule over chance and probability above the specter of dynasty prodigy progeny tithing gravity in rent
Yet this taper of majestic poise will outfox even the careless gambles of the prodigal son Mr Sender already traipsed conquered and went
The mountaintop is so clear from the cloister of authenticity drinking Eminence Front of the WHO rather than the coherence of the near
Because titans shepherd the good flock without insult and not quavering with insuperable time flackey with tremulous fear
I dare this day to outlast benighted ignorance of the narrow gate of a persecution tsunami on a Lisbon tear
Because galloping ahead of the internecine sheds the serpentine craft of 3:1 Genesis met with the worst fleeced fleer
Not auctioned off like ******* vogue to the disfavor of poor taste
I am the true Royal Flush that can always count on the aced basic but mostly acidic flourish of a jest in bass predicated on the basis for Mozart pH
Today could be the summit of acclimated prodigy in startled degrees temerity could never bet against
Because you better bet the Bros and Cos of civilization are skilled in ostentation of Sterling Pound defense
Never offensive to the liturgy of triumph beckoning an apocalypse now tentative memory on a Manifest Destiny frontier rarely on wickers of extinguished cattle ranchers knowing the gamut of acumen to defend a fortress with the best fencing James Bond could dispense
Now is either a cordial joke of a flagrant anarchy balking at destiny
Or the sunrise majesty of the twelve tribes and beyond defeating the stingy bees of infamy
Your choice doesn’t defeat my voice
But your action heralds my loyalty with a triumphant Victoria of an age not for agelast geeks intimidated but living clairvoyance with fidelity to the right choice for the right time to swim in elegant rejoice
(1977 Words)
La Jongleuse Jan 2017
It’s once again, midnight
humming arrogantly with
a churning of the wheels.
It's a soft-spoken rapture
& brutal shedding of rust:
in the hour when ghosts in
their shadow-cloaks come out
to play,
all nice.  

This is what with which
you are stricken :
Silence & alien gestures
you’ve rehearsed


Sometimes, your blood  
won't evaporate as quickly as you'd wish
-when the swallowing gets laborious.
He looks so pretty and easy prey.
His words fell on you like bullets,
His hands fell onto you like oil to water.
Slaughter & Divide
All you've wanted to hear:
All he knows to say
Blame beta fathers , such farmers
with borders & no horizons-
they never went to the moon
And you are selling  prime real estate
somewhere in the Milky Way

Here you easy come easy go
in the pseudo-celestial shallows,
Yet you are still nothing more,
nothing less than your shotgun grandfathers
and their drinking women
with ******* aflame.
Black hole reverie or Persephone
Make the call.

However, this is such a regular revelation ,
you are always saying the past has yet to come
as you set the record to repeat and
let the meridian of time rot.

Then he looks at your thighs
and listens to your speaking,
and you wilt in the glitter
because it's scripted, wilt so
Effortlessly
So needlessly.
Shutter, revoke, indulge, repulse.

Tonight in your belly, lies the gravestone of insanity,
unrooted by some ill intended resurrection of goodwill and humanity.

You are always missing the mark
but so quick to pull the trigger.
Full of so much of what's easier done than said -

You lie down in ethanol meadows making dust-angels amongst the metal beehives,
as he's looking at you
like some sort of promethean redemptress,
asking you meekly for just a touch
and then you swallow your refusal,
cramping up in a paralyzed and vampiric ecstasy.
Who first taught you the word ephemeral again ?

He reaches
You retire.
You say I have no sugar
For myself
Let alone for my brother
But then again, you let it flow
from your bubbling mouth.
Flagellating yourself with the same cane.


Then you pray for absolution on a bended knee
for the form alone, mockery of a jellyfish woman
Indeed, the skeletoned live on another plane entirely.

And you beg for mercy
Beg for forgiveness
Lest they love you not for
The alien cancer petrifying in your gut.

He beckons you over
You fold and bend down,
One should only ever be primitive
In this menagerie of sunsets and sunrises
He jumps your bones
But you're already nothing but dust
From a vessel of mercury stained with Cinnabar, they brought next to Vas Auric, an ocher figure from the environment posed by the sarcophagus, to the detriment of the meats that resisted the Larnax or ash sarcophagus that came in other larnakes from Persia. The colors were specified in nature from a new terrarum upon the arrival of this prehistoric substance, in Neolithic pride, as it shone in the ceramic that they had been climbing from the hill of Patmos. Post-mortem, they were aedicules that were already established with pecuniary obols, to coin the solidity of the disputed and risky lands of the Camels; Gaugamela in the ambages of the bodies that must have remained standing, but with their staunch resistance they ended up colored by the ocher of cinnabar, and the rust of camels looking for traces of the mercury trickery that snatched them in the fleshless tombs, in thick and vivid sight of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who mostly accompanied him from their stagnant warehouses in Jaffa. In the northern Governorate of Zefian, the bodies from the Tel Gomel siege, in particular the Cinnabar embalming funeral company and mobile, came alongside Wonthelimar as pieces of Lord Hades' grave goods, mutilating the diaphragm with little light than in any eye that could observe, binding to HgS sulfur; Cinnabar that was already decanting from the last reduced specimen in the Hellenika Necropolis, Kímolos. Being ocher that glowed, and was complemented by the hyper chlorinated red blood cells with the Aldehyde, to micro-inseminate in mischief from the sketches of the Infant from Kalymnos Raeder, which appeared in some masonry sketches in harmonious earthy alchemy, removing the Larnax packages that they brought the ashes of Alexander the Great, and in others the anatomical of the others that were only simulated, since they could never reunite their symbolic bodies of osteology, which was diagnosed before all along with the Larnax of the Emperor that would be revived by the Vas Auric.

From the Hellenika necropolis in Kimolos, the spectrographies of the sarcofaghus of the fallen in Tel Gomel were indicated, there were five thousand Macedonians who were transmigrated from the Lepidoptera sarcophagus that was injected by the psyche that covered them from the fifth house of the Necropolis, or the “V” courtyard (fifth sarcophagus) of Hellenika, the favorite place of her Erichthonius or fetish serpent who was her consort of Athenea. Here the chemical elements of Prometheus crossing all the ages of time, and the age that oxygenated him in its chains in support of the Neolithic, were represented. Vernarth's Zefian computer brought sodium, magnesium and aluminum, Borker silicon, phosphorus and chlorine, Leiak Calcium, iron, and Potassium and finally Kaitelka throwing graphitic carbon through space. The chemical shadows of Hellenika's fifth courtyard varied them with ultra-trace of Labrys or double-edged axes swinging on the pendular in front of Prometheus as the savior of man, and the abstract demiurge of Hellenika's philosophy. The red blood cells with their links stained the ink of Aeschylus of ruddy color, and of an Oceanid orange hue like a glanders viaduct that turned iron towards the narthex or transmigration portico of Helleniká on the way to Patmos, to finally transport the mercurial bodies of the five thousand, totally covered with sulfur cinnabar in all its bone structure. The scapulae of some Hypapists had eagle claws that exported the sacrum of another in one claw, agglutinating into little crows that grappled with the jambs of cubes and humerus in the hemipelvis of the one who avoided it? But it lay split in two, almost pointing with its index a versicular of the Hebrew Vulgate. Some femurs of some Hoplites histrionized in the spectrogram and iris of Zefian who analyzed them, and who ventured the right ulna of a Macedonian to Tartarus, an undamaged Hetairoi as acrostic white bleeding from a distal epiphysis that was seen to be crowded with red blood cells, in order of Zefian and the grace of the serpent Eriction, for temporary sedimented colorations, and then to is taken to the zygomatic where a flabby Leonatus had embedded itself in the bronze, as a temporary fauna in the left, while Athenea relieved them after the post-exhumation.

Zefian with sodium, magnesium, and aluminum ritualized raising them in each of the morbid dances, but relieving the stains in each of the affected areas, with a pinch of Mashiach Cinnabar, for the post-mortem effect that was coming in the galloping efflorations of the Nótos de Borker, which bore a replica of a diadem of the skull in perforation of its forehead with the “V” mark, ibid, Athenea being a favorite and born from the forehead of Zeus. This rubric was made on most of the bodies that were sewn with the hides of raptors that protected them until it was time to exhume them with the basal chlorination of Cinnabar and Antiphon Benedictus.

The surface of the Helleniká solid was made up of lavish kinetics, and nuclei to react in hydrogen sulfide, in ionized particles of greater growth to the development of a mythical embryonic and updated, in Promethean neo-policies of the transcendental size of distemperance, which rose in carts of mass photons, by the Heracleian ultra theater trying to emancipate a concentric character in the tragic proscenium, and of an antagonistic whole as an actor of institutionalization of the surviving scenic works, flagellating images that are not of his intentions, nor by whom erected them or by whoever takes them to the ultra gothic scene, or of demigods who save man from his siege in contemporary total disappearance, subjugated to the enslavement of a utopia, and not of the seasonality of Gods made men, with policies, made in the cookbook measure of tasteless soups in invisible realms.

The formulas and equations were re-coined in the bones and columns that are erected by the dynamics of human demand, which revives him on pilot scales that wander unchanged from the Theater of the Epidaurus, and in the memory appendix that is subtracted from the West: Dyticá (Twilight of Leiak), a species of Prometheus of the Forests, but this time not stinging any sip of liquids with entomology, and Lepidoptera of Gethsemane in flocks that come to clean the scabs of the heroes, who are only capable of resisting such effusion of subtle prophylaxis, in this neo-Ambrosia Mercurial.
Prometheus in Vain
SiouxF Mar 2021
Like a modern day Sleeping Beauty,
Living 50 years of her life
In a trance like daze,
Oblivious to all,
Viewing the world through the twisted lens and filter
Of a controlling bully.
Learning to be her own worst enemy,
Flagellating herself like a aesthetic,
Living as a timid scurrying mouse
Fearing the light of day,
To a ridiculously enraged roaring lionness protecting her brood.
Awoken from her deep slumber
By Prince Charming’s sweetest gentlest kiss,
She rose to fight another day,
This time standing in her power,
Slaying her enemies,
And all who had kept her playing small
To further their own ends,
Now shining in the glow of her brilliance
Saying “******* one and all,
I am me,
THIS is who I am,
I am proud of what I’ve achieved,
Now I sing my own song,
Dance to my own tune,
Play my own game”,
As she galloped off astride her gallant steed
Amid a swirl of dust
Towards sunset’s rosy glow
n stiles carmona Apr 2020
the gods debate and then concede:
"His punishment is empathy!"

they could have excused the self-assurance,
the love of an entity built in their holy image;
the conclusion that You are the only one good enough for You.
they could not condone Your vicious deeds --
they would not condone the blood.

the gods debate and then concede
Your punishment is empathy
(though never enough to spare a thought
for my voice within the cavern walls
or the spattered blood of Ameinias
or the righteousness of Nemesis)

**** You, bless You, Your Holy Reflection
condemning the flowers and mountains to dirt;
the suitors (silent in Your wake) reduced to peripheral blurs,
forgoing all the world for the sake of Your one true love --
still steadfastly playing martyr,
not the fool with His fingertips hovering inches from the water,
doting on His Image! loving like gods love irony and a brute-force punchline!

the gods' one choice was to concede
Your punishment was empathy
while the verbal paradise in my mind smoulders into ash.

if You spared just a thought for me (love was never a necessity)
Your words would then be mine:
instead i speak through nobody with thoughts that barely rhyme.
i am small, a silent letter in an 'echo';
arms linked, moving in rhythm, with my siblings --
Your story rhymes, each chapter weaving into a chorus

the gods reprise when they concede:
"His punishment is empathy!"

[NOTHING]: seven letters long, pronounced like [SILENCE]:
not a nuance to unravel, nor utterance un/spoken to linger in the air.
these rewards i reap for loving too loudly:
blooming, bountiful  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ;
self-flagellating  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ .
i choke upon this  _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ,
still clinging to Your _ _ _ _ _ _ _ .

the water's silent ennui:
Your punishment, Your empathy.

in a nicer world, my fury burns the love away
-- but still, it simmers. still, it stays.
You wilt like heaven's roses, exquisite in (and after) death
whilst i spoil into _ _ _ _ _ _ _  and watch the world forget.
based on the greek myth of echo and narcissus. playing fast and loose with the whole 'rhyming' thing so uh... brief word of warning if that sets you on edge.
to avoid the pitfall of prospective homelessness
which near future prospect
   induces existential angst i confess.

Today (end of rope rhyme rote
   approximately deux orbitz round the sun),
i wanted ta die and bid god riddance grandly
   going gamesomely gra grave,
   de deum, and cymbal crash

to Bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually -
   all the grinding hardships would be gone in a flash
how tempting to seek ot a solution sans hemlock
   or other deadly potion,

   whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of
   mortal freedoms renting psych *** under
   with purposelessness mine hash

tag, which bout with suicide
   while n the edge of thirteen -
   Anorexia nervosa defeated -
   then as now experience
   10,000 banshee maniacs whip lash

lacerating, flagellating,
   and repeatedly rousing thoughts
   shin to circle back to why death be not proud
   when life on par with a mash

up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus
   analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring
   in step happy jollity,
   and levity attempt to make light

   of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the (then) lvii roam min years
   as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter

   the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er of dissonance
   targeted this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled
   from the womb, his reddened ears did bash
from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses

   into the maternity ward
   of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet Prancer doth emulate
   a con ***** dancer, cuz ova this rude half
   re: that came a boot
   from genetic chromosomal dna wash.
jeffrey robin Sep 2014
/// • |
<>
/\ \
     \
/\

O

////

True                               true
                  is LOVE



oh how

Oh       how                    TRUE
is     Love



Thru the burnin      Fire

LOVE



She stands before the Tyrant

Bright Eyes            Blazing
( like a              gun ! )

LOVE !



They meet            in
                               Reality

Soul to soul

ETERNAL IS THE          TOUCH

////

Eternal             Is
                          LOVE

••
••

If I know you

                                It is                 Love

If I              touch         You

I will hold you dearly
And if you want
I won't let you             Go

And to hold               Everyone

Is my vow and eternal            Oath

•••

Is                     my
                LOVE


•       •

Beyond the              *****
            Poetry

Of people
Flagellating             their
                                 Senses

And                       maiming each other's

                                     Souls and Bodies

is


LOVE
Emily Miller Oct 2017
Tip tap, tip tap
Tapping, tapping, tapping
With that incessant sound,
That pleasurable pressure on the nail beds as the fingernails press down,
Down on the keys until the words come out,
Lifting momentarily to snap, pop, and crack those knuckles
To relieve that stiffness
Loosen them up enough to lift the bottle,
Fingers grasped tightly around the slender, delicate neck,
Swing it up,
Get enough leverage to do it with one hand,
Because you can't spare the other,
It's typing,
Still typing,
Typing nothing,
Nothing Important.
Bottle up, up in the air,
Hard swallows of that sweet, sweet poison that tastes better when there's more,
Dim lamplight casting dark green from the bottle onto the walls,
Like a mockery of a dappling light through tree branches in a forest.
The jagged thoughts that don't make sentences,
Only angry snarling,
Smooth over as the poison drips down,
Sinks in,
Melts those granite thoughts down to a rich,
Decadent
Oil
That slips off the fingertips into the keys,
And bedews each word,
Dripping that life into them,
Satisfying, satiating, saturating,
Until they are plump and vital,
And fingers are falling on the keys like knees to the floor in prayer,
And those words are being worshiped,
Exalted and revered,
And instead of the words being creations,
The words are the gods of the fingers,
The fingers the creations,
Throwing themselves down in ritual,
The raw, chafing flesh of the tips pounding against the keyboard like the mutilated backs of the self-flagellating worshipers of other gods,
And they go down and down and down
Until they can't do it anymore and the poison is gone and the words are dried up again,
And the gods don't seem real anymore
And the hands fall dead in the lap
Only stirring to lift that last swig of the poison
One last sip
And that's it
Death to the hands.
Robert Gretczko Nov 2021
we are shredding our sensibilities
into mindless, endless affirmations of guilt
if by a freak of nature we are all now a disease
by birth our skin.... white and pale as silt

stumping and pumping hands high in shrill
gasping moments in the public square
banged and pummeled our mouths fail our will
but against those men with muskets do we compare

thrown across flickering screens that rage
with acid and foment eliciting condemnation's hate
are we just players in the second act on stage
if you fail and are plowed under there is no rebate

the mustering blustering sanctimonious deceit
has crept in brains and deranged the synapse
flagellating babbling chauffeur-driven elite
deliver the death knell, clock sure without lapse

take heed and know your forbearance is fully tested
against an evil with spikes at every turn and bend
if you falter now or run from the beast to be bested
surely the light and lift of all mankind will be but a bitter end
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
i'm at it again, ******* to pictures of
naked women without climaxing...
i have to... i'm gearing up for an hour's
worth of the "***** deed"...
Michaela is going back to Romania
on the 28th of this month and
i have a Wembley shift on the 16th...

my god... i went to the shop to buy some ice-cubes
a whiskey and some pepsi...
and who was in front of me in the queue?
a ******* Rolls-Royce of a woman: my type...
my mythological type of woman... foreign...
i'm guessing German... blonde hair: but not albino,
ergo mingling with tinges of a brunette,
older than me, by i'm guessing at least 10 years...

definitely German... she was buying
(from what i can remember) cat food and beer...
i looked at her hands... no ring... i abhor jewellery...
my parents thought it would be cute for
a ****** boy to don a signet on the pinky finger
like the English aristocracy... i don't do rings...
even if i were married i couldn't wear a ring on my finger...
no chance! but this was a Rolls Royce of a woman...
suitor to my frame... big... well: not fat...
just: womanly: a womanly woman...
the type that might serve you beer in a tavern...

i lost my mind... certainly not a geisha type...
a bit like Michaela last night... oh...
she was plump alright: i really plucked a plum yesterday...
usually i have problems ******* within an hour...
Khadija sort of bypassed the ****** on her own whim...
Michaela also: but she asked me to pay her extra...
£30 for ******-less oral and £40 for the full deal...

i was only there for half an hour...
all that walking around drinking cider around the brothel
rubbing my groin to get the party started:
plus her frame? she looked like what artists or
men in general found attractive in the Renaissance:
plump women... i knew i was going to ******* pretty
quickly... an unfathomable force came along
an unfathomable object... sparkles...

with past girlfriends i was such a man-*****...
ooh... need to satisfy her blah blah...
Ilona even noted that not many men are like that:
she noticed my back-then ****** library:
i started reading that infamous book The Game by
that some other pick-up artist...
i soon found that pointless... started reading
Tantra... more useful...
but yesterday? i was a man...
            30 minutes: i heard women like quickies, no?
after oral she asked me, what position?
doggy... missionary is so ******* back-breaking...
but i wanted to look at her fat ***...
no... it wasn't premature *******...
it was: i just finished a shift...
i was out of the house for over 12 hours...
i was hot, sweaty... i started drinking...
forget getting something off my chest to a psychologist
or a priest... that third P...

it was blissful... it felt like the heat-wave was
over and it started raining: somewhere...
second time though? it won't be like that...
i'm already practicing keeping the *******
prolonged... it will take two or three days
or just stroking an ******* without actually *******...
but this Rolls Royce a blonde just now...
a full woman... a woman's woman...
feline eyes dabbed with the least amount of
mascara: a woman that was single...
but looked like she was catered to by a harem
of men... well: a harem of eunuchs and some sheikh...
at least: in my eyes...

a woman that could be the antithesis of cubism,
for sure... she could stand next to a Picasso
and i could tell you: that! that's the antonym!

i couldn't possibly behave like the noble swan
in monogamy... i also couldn't do whatever is "classical"
these days about what dating was about
in 1950s America...
no chance of that happening... this is Europe, after all:
we do things differently here...

- well that was a first, i never thought i would be
directing a bus driver about where to go,
his first shift: on the 86 bus route:
i was picking up a bicycle wheel from Bicycle King
of Chadwell Heath: one of my spokes
snapped from the heat... thankfully as i was about
to do a trip... anyways...
he turned around and opened his cabin door
and asked me to direct him... so i did...
this exit on roundabout x... that exit on roundabout y...
i remember the number 5 route back in Poland
ever since i kept to this comforting thought:
i wish to become a bus-driver once...
which routes? 86 is grand... 103 would be even better...

- Michaela? after we finished our "*****" deed
we just chatted... smoked cigarettes and drank
the whiskey i brought with me...
she asked me: do you smoke? yep...
so i asked her: do you drink? yep...
15 girls in total in the brothel...
2 Polish girls, 1 Turkish girl... 2 Russian girls...
the rest? Romanian...
what time do you finish? 5am...
what then, go back home and sleep?
no... i work in a hospital in central London:
i administer medication to patients...
i like showcasing my hygiene...
shower prior... washing my genitals after...
no... of course i wouldn't shower after having *** with
her: i want her body's perfume to stay with me...
she didn't shower after either...
like-minded ***-maddened people...

i love certain women too much to listen to western:
WASPS (western anglo-saxon protestant
feminists type): let's just have fun or let's just die...
i'm not coming near that "thing" without a yard-stick!
i'm serious!
            secretive "******" / nuns...
          i'm going to have a hard time ruling my secrets
under ol' king Charlie... i'm finishing off ol' Lizzie
reign with a crescendo... dearest Lizzie:
it has been a blast... thank you: god save the queen!

- stopped off at the Moon & Stars at Romford...
the smoking was packed so i sat on the public bench
with half-a-Guinness and smoked clinging to my wheel...
finishing my cigarette i implored fellow appreciators
of the brew if i could leave my stump of filter in their
ashstray:
- oi! mate! looks like someone stole your bike!
you're only left with a wheel!
- ha ha ha... pause... but it's a unicycle now!
- ha ha...

i'm starting to surprise myself more and more...
the alles-mensch...
i'm returning to people like i first met them
back in school...
the best way i can: as a chameleon...
i'm Matthew A with some... i'm Matthew B with others...
Matthew C with another group...
and they come to me like i'm some *******
priest, some advocate...
hey! if Walt Whitman could celebrate himself
i'm going to celebrate myself:
i'm done with feeling **** about myself:
i'm going to drink, i'm going to dance: to groove...
once upon a time there were serious leftist policies
and ideologies: that tied into an alternative
economic policy: but under the same yoke
of communism? it's ******* posturing...
i'm not going to take these people seriously: esp. if they're
coming from America...
people should know better...

- two songs...
      lyrically? run to the hills by iron maiden
and midnight oil's the dead heart are the same...
white man this white man that...
Poland was cut up in three by three great empires...
then it was resurrected and then it was conquered
by **** Germany and Soviet Russia...
then it was a Soviet satellite state...
hmm: why did the English invent cricket
and rugby and football?
a bit like that fortune that met Japan when a Mongol
fleet was met with a hurricane...
yawn: the Norman invasion of 1066...
the fortune of when the Spanish armada was
met with the fickle English channel weather:
a people who have not been conquered
for a long time: are not slack... slacking about...
so? whatever is coming out of America doesn't bother me...

mind you... the latest news is ******* promising:
isn't it? i wasn't a big fan of Salman Rushdie...
oh... right the two songs...
lyrically... similar?
musically though? there's that rough-edge:
bass that sounds like a horn...
Fall Out Boy's Uma Thurman has it...
and Midnight Oil's: the Dead Heart has it too...
it's a sound akin to the word: PROWL
if you trill the R... roll it... rattle it...

that's the thing with Midnight Oil...
i remember hearing that one song of theirs they
play on Polish radio... beds are burning...
i spent... over 10 years looking up both the band
and the song name: 10 years i was looking for that song...
and once i found it i figured: it's probably not even
their best song... hey presto...

oh right... Salman Rushdie gets stabbed 15 times in
the neck...
i'm not a massive fan: i tried reading pride...
mind you... i love the comparison he gives...
Satan is falling from the sky head first, calm,
motionless like a sack of potatoes...
while Gabriel? Gabriel is trying to imitate a bird...
flapping his hands and legs about...
i guess the former is a fatalist while the second
is a would-be-opportunist...
but **** me... 15 times in the neck?

i'm starting to think all Muslim men are secretly
women...
why? there's that quote: hell knows no fury like
a woman scorned...
well... that works just as well for Muslim men:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim man insulted:
wait wait... reiteration:
hell knows no fury like a Muslim being told there's
something like free-thinking...
that certain things can be scrutinised: revised...
ergo? Muslim men are feminine:
but no surprises... polygamy and eunuchs...
me? i don't care... like i told one colt outside of
a supermarket...
he gave me 10 squid to buy him a bottle of *****...
he was in a menage trois...
i took the tenner... bought myself a whiskey
and thought: hmm... might as well but him a litre
bottle...
walked out... oh man: i was mouthed off like mad...
why didn't you buy me a 35cl flask?!
why did you buy me a litre?!
i thought you wanted *****?
the argument became so heated that a security
guard emerged from the supermarket:
- i'll get my uncle to beat you up!
- boyo, listen... listen... i have a death-wish...
tell me where you uncle wants to meet up with me...
i'll just tell him you wanted to drink *****
at the age of 15 to impress a girl... your friend...
is already *******... you're just sloppy seconds mate...

oh sure... you can insult Islam by more ways than one...
Socrates? illiterate... Jesus? illiterate...
Muhammad? illiterate...
who accounted for the life of Socrates? Plato...
Jesus? hold up... a literate fisherman by
the name of Peter? so... fishermen were literate
but the carpenters weren't? ****'s sake...
what a gap... i can imagine a tax collector to be literate...
but there's a gap... carpenters were illiterate
but fishermen were... hmm...

Muhammad? despised in Mecca... took a trip to Medina:
what's the whole affair surrounding the Satanic
Verses? CRANES... some **** about how Allah
took an wife: a pagan Arabic deity... some **** like that...
i'm flimsy on the details...
the basic motto being: Allah has no partners...
he's ultimate omni-solipsist

that's how i arrived an the compliments towards
monotheism... sitting in the dark listening
to several variations of the Adhan...
this... monotheistic god: whether Jew-....
no no... he's different... the Hebrew god is equivalent
to Hades in Greek mythology...
in no known mythology: he's a god that's a god-eater...
he ate up Beelzebub... who was a deity:
before becoming Satan's sidekick...

insult Islam? what about that woman that ran around
two mountain ranges... wasn't she Abraham's concubine?!
she wasn't his wife...
monotheism = an autistic god...
a solipsistic god... a solipsistic...
the omni-verse of man's self capacity and capability...
it's a strange model since... polytheism produced
more interesting: more opened minded people...

oh: Islam is beautiful... just like camels and like
an oasis is beautiful: in a desert...
Dubai is also beautiful in a desert:
such a splendid: pointless city...
the Adhan... i love listening to Adhans...
those elongated vibrating vowels...
when Arabs sing it's perfectly alright...
they drop the glut of a drooling tongue of QBAH...

they resonate... they talk? i'm thinking about
sweeping the streets... or haggling over
some cheap **** in a flea market...

Muhammad was illiterate... funny... that flight from
Mecca to Medina... who did he marry?
an older woman... an entrepreneurial woman...
a businness woman...
funny... i ****** a ******* with her name...
Khadija... but this one is Turkish... she's not Arabic...
and unlike Muhammad: i'm writing
the ******* book, akin the lines of Elvis Costello's
lyrics: every, *******, day... me...
i'm writing it... because... who wrote the Quran?
at least the first surah?
Khadija! she wrote them! a woman wrote
the first entries of the Quran...
she was the literate one: he... sure as ****... from what
i heard: wasn't...
a woman wrote the first entries of the Quran...
mind you... why do the sheikhs adorn clothing in white
while the women are subject to attire in black...
seriously?! that predates Nietzsche proposition
of god being dead: who died?!
who died?! who died in order for women to suffer
so in the sun? that's predating the Victorian prim
and pomp...

            i don't want to understand these people...
stabbing a guy who scribbled some words
15 ******* times in the neck?
come on: hell know no fury like a Muslim man
insulted... guess his brain goes where his ****
is about to **** out a ******* Tikka Masala chicken
makeover with a pita bread and some veggie extras...
because: that's where it's going!

i do admire the adhan... like i admire crusader chants
of the templars...
but a call to prayer? i sense it: since i rarely dream...
a bit like... trying to have a handshake with my
shadow: a funny joke... prayer is such a selfish
endeavour... since... you're never really praying
for the betterment of others: just your self
and the solipsistic nature of a monotheistic deity...
love the songs: hate the tributes...

paint me: a prettier ******* picture...

it must be the heat... but i had this wild idea...
burning my brain... evaporating whatever is supposed
to be contained between the two ears..
and behind the two eyes...
woman are the best... but also the worst of humanity...
men? they're either the best or the mediocre...
after all: you can't be a ****** genocidal maniac to
begin or end with...
you're either a great genocidal maniac or you're not...

the point being... the love triangle of Paris...
Helen and Melenaous...
    hmm... i'm thinking...
i'm not a Holocaust denier... **** me: i'm pretty
sure a lot of Polacks were used to build
the concentration camps under forced labour...
no no... i'm thinking Helen...
i'm thinking who Adolf ****** dated...

i was watching this documentary where "they" excavated
genetic background checks from Eva Braun's
personal belongings... a hair-comb with her hair...
turns out... she had Hebrew ancestry...
so... ******... dated a Jewish girl... while: dessimating
the Jews... fishy... fishing for red herrings...
i don't care much for aliens:
i've seen a fluorescent UFO once...
obviously i didn't take a picture...
i was too engrossed in drinking and lamenting
while sitting under a tree in a summer that didn't
starve my mind with a heat-wave...

women are worst than men...
men are more stupid and smarter... paradox after
paradox... i'm thinking of Helen of Troy and i'm thinking
of Eva Braun...
is it a conspiracy theory? what if she...
a Jewish girl... whispered a sweet lie into that maniac's
ear... hey... you start a Jewish prone genocide:
our people: just might get our land back!
we might have our...
there was the genesis... there was the exodus...
what's the Hebrew word for the return?
the SHOAH-לַחֲזוֹר
        KHZUR... the event that's best coupled as:
SHOAH-KHZUR...
the calamity to return to one's homeland...
which... isn't... wasn't it true... come to fruition?!
Helen of Troy... Eva ****** nee Braun?
listen... i'm busy *******... i'm going to spend the next
few days ******* myself without
*******... so i can build up a stamina
for an hour and not finish: although: gladly...
within half...
        plus... i've already ****** a Turkish *******
with a name the same as Muhammad's first wife...
the one who wrote the first Surah of the Quran:
because... he was illiterate: while she wasn't...
my Hebrew might be off...
but... i don't believe in monotheism...
  to begin with...
                            i don't believe in an autistic
robot god... i don't believe in a robotic world...
some things can be changed...
but i sort of like entertaining the idea that Eva Braun
is the modern version of Helen of Troy...
the best an the worst in women...
in men? just the best and the mediocre...
she must have whispered into whittle Adolf's ear:
hey... you start killing my people...
the global community will finally decide to give the
Jews their homeland back...
start killing... genocidally...
i mean: **** me... didn't they commit a joint suicide?!
people conjure up fairy-tales all the time...
well: the ones that can...

after all i'm a huge fan of the Batman universe...
perhaps i didn't see my parents be murdered
as a child: what child does?
on a scale of averages...
i was raised by my grandparents: i had dogs for
siblings... i didn't see me father from the age
of 4 through to 8...
i didn't see my mother from the age of 6 through to 8...
i wasn't outright abandoned like
my father was by his parents and raised
by his grandmother and his foster grandfather...
maybe that's what makes me so "clingy" to them:
or the outright economic structures...
but? intellectually: i can prosper on my own...

i can have these thought: i have already stated...
i can read the newspapers and look down on
the journalists... you... established folk...
it's like these people are the ones with the money
to produce, buy and write eternal nothings
on papyrus... the priestly / journalistic class of folk...
but then the printing press appears
and the gatekeepers are bypassed...
ergo? the internet... i don't want money
for what i ingest, digest and therefore regurgitate...

i saw the potential for a cover-op.
                  i could really do some damage if i just
dedicated myself to a thirst for knowledge...
i could sit back and watch the world change:
like... like play-dough...
  and i have... and i will continue to do so...

with the Europeans having expelled the Hebrews:
who has been welcomed into our midst
to replace those Hebrews?
calamity-to-return... to one's abiding midst...
away from the Europeans and into the Arab lot...
after all:
didn't the Arabs and the Berbers conquer
Spain with the help of the Jews?
i heard that that's what happened...

i need to work on my Hebrew...
mind you... it's an enigmatic language...
how would i write shoah-khzur?

    ש (shin) i.e. the -in disappeares
vowels are diacritical marks in Hebrew...
although: א (aleph) and ע (ayin):
are the twin-gay-lords of Eden...
who somehow managed to give birth
to the children Leph and Yin through their ****...

i was told what i current wrote was a given:
but? makes no sense...
ש no O no A... ה
i would have written as שה...
                            i can now understand how and why
emperor Nero became so easily *******...
it wasn't about: oh these Hebrews and their fire deity...
he turned the early Christians into torches
and fed them to the lions, because...
look how these people write!
there are writing in cipher-mode!

there are no vowels in hebrew worth stating them
as letters! שה shoah: yeah... yeah!
Hebrew has two vowels as consonants: Aleph and Ayin...
the gay Adams...
all the other vowels are diacritical markers...
they're not proper letters...
vowels are female:
consonants as masculine...
don't: you ******* know... how nomadic people
work?!

the internet is DUMB... KHZUR...
לַ: that's lamedh...
      is the H a surd in Hebrew? i doubt it...
כהזר...

כהזר שה                  -->      <--

              how mighty must have the wrath of Nero
been... to turn the early Christians into
torches: where are your vowels!
i can see two vowels behaving like 'em!

i need to regret something...
on the 16th i'm going back to the brothel...
my favorite new album?
the 1987 release b Midnight Oil:
Diesel and Oil...
i need prostitutes...
i need more than king Solomon...
i have n infatuation with the bodies of mandible
potential...

there are words: that are letters:
shin-cholem-kametz-h'eh
kaf-h'eh-zayin-kibbutz/shurek?-resh ..

no wonder emperor Nero slaughtered the whole
lot of yous...
i wouled have too...
white man singing about the disgraces of fellow
white man...
good enugh for me: if the Africans weren't
moved to America and required to forget their African
tongue: they would sing zilch of the blues
and a zilch of jazz... there would be zilch
of Mbapa Ella Fitzgerald... no Nina Simone...
no "RESPECT"...
            *******: self-flagellating whittle white man
of the anglo-saxon demands...
no! if there was no slave-trade...
toward the Americas... there would be no jazz!
no escape from the mind of a Mozart...
Europeans don't have voices to sing!
Africans do! but they require a European tongue
to sing in!

what racial pride? pride in what?
not keeping your language?!
being black racist supe-racialists...
our ethnicity is more important than the language
we speak? seriously?!
you... you're doubly the slave...
you don't speak your mother's tongue...
you are urban *******...
that's what you are... to me...
urban *******...
                            i speak my mother's tongue...
i guess being bilingual can be a little bit complicated...
i guess it's easier otherwise...
urban *******...
                    "natives"...
                                      as a ****** i get the whole:
"native" project all the time... **** it...
i'm siding with the imaginary Tsar...
                                  no! nein! niet!
nie!

                                  i know what brown-skinned
people are like in the work-force... they're worse than
women: they're lazier...
i'd like to think about shooting them in the head:
to get them to move-on...
esp. their younglings...
their young are CULL MATERIAL...
maybe that's why they reproduce so much:
they are CULL MATERIAL...

maybe that's why i'm experiencing a heat-wave...
i'm building up an adherence toward
a super-structure of disease-aversion...
and that implies... racial-tension mechanisations...
because i have to...
i have to... the Chinese are not going to stop *******
silly... the Indians aren't... while the demands on
the Europeans to "save the earth": **** it...
no no.... listen...
this planet is decidedly going to burn...
i just don't care...

                        i don't have any children...
i don't have a future beside the future of an idea...
that's all i have...
i don't care...
                    you burn whatever you want to
burn...
  i just wish i was living in Apocalyptic Times
and i was the Mad Max...
i seriously wish i was the reinvested
patriarch Abraham in the reinvented times
of new beginnings...
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
two-faced-coy before god:
does god throw dice?
perchance the question might
be asked, if i had the most "mundane"
job of experiencing
the transit of humanity in its
fullest...
      some minor role,
like a road cleaner...
  oh hell, i could tell you about
the transit...
and the dead fox i dragged into
the minor wilderness
from saturday to sunday...
begging the onlookers to not
pry their eyes at my unfathomable
gesture of: "concern"
for the sanitary worker being given
a break from "duty"...
yes, i skinned and weight the
******... no!
i weight him though...
came to across nearing 10kg
worth of a mature maine coot
cat...
            and since:
  the fox-spirit has furthered my
allowance on the "poor"
sanitation worker not woken
to alleviate the "concern"
of the public...
           almost puked pushing
my snout into its roadkill...
but instead of blood...
        i attempted to make vague
the odd signature of:
iron...
            lost in gushing from
the fox snout...
     now... i'll write what i've
lived... since i'm not being
paid: **** ALL! for it...
                 does god toss dice?
depends... been meditating
the concept with nine "magic"
squares worth of, but one "random"
take on a kabbalistic thought...
and you know what i thought?
borrow the sorrows from
other tongues, and make them unz!
hell before heaven forgot
babylon, and the fate of man was
not so immediate akin
to the other "formalities":
i too might exhaust taking to
heaving, rather than minding a soul...
again... does god toss dice?
   by now the sudoku square
is already assertive of the power
of nine, and further,
to the power of six,
  with each side being made as
sacrificial torso of the former,
prime, power spectacle...
       indeed the q'ah'baah...
a ******* meteor shower...
and not one source of worship that
exhausted the lizards...
         seeking blame is so
autocratic...
  but the mea culpa plea?
          so *******... un-democratic...
      does god throw dice,
to explain the fate of a mortal gamble?
or rather...
   is there but a coin flipped that
is determinate,
in having two of the same
faces embedded in the deciding
                       "whim"?
a harem of more slaughter that could
make even Herod blush his
***** region,
had he the affairs of bleachings
the cranium hairs of his
                supposed, ancestry...
desire: and the fed lie...
          by no consent is an indulgence
to be punished: if it was fed
by a lie...
              and so:
   no truth entrenched be allowed
special assertion of compensation
be acknowledged:
  by merit, no merit alone,
        and if... be neither nor allowed:
a grievance...
      made ample when experienced
in tutoring youth...
to shame the grieving party,
  and make it distinguishable from
the gaining party...
      rule of adolescence...
             does god, throw dice to make
impetus over lordship of
the only gamble that's the gamble
"neglected" in nature?
       my: the reality of poor lamb...
coin flip...
             my...
       the metaphor of wolf, incarnate!
ego breeding / feeding grounds
of the loss of plagiarism of
                a willing man, impetus!
does god throw dice...
  or does the chance of the already
gambling god...
   make up for the barking dog
accomplished by either
        heads... or tails?
                            kings... or subjects?
the french revolution was
a stranger concer for
making gambles...
               given that the tails one
the argument... against the echo of
sobering heads
that envisioned horns being
attached to their bargaining: status...
rather than... limitless politico:
of gambling with it...
   avoiding the schema of ******...
now...
   tell me...
what will the tails say this time
round... if they hear that the whole
point of equilibrium and waterfall
is in exacting of the order of the tails
not breeding in the agony of
              arisotractic
disconcern, for...            trans-*******
growing limbs without
movement?
      oh i'm sure the ****** have all
the answers...
         which are worth an hour of body...
but only a second in
aritocratic cultivation of the moral
(th)ought...
               all other animals have
been bred upon the rigid dynamism of
the entertaining exposure of chance...
only man...
        transcended it...
          against god...
      and at the same time could not
                 consolidate it within himself...
at last... not mere egyptian...
    devoid of the biblical affair with twin
torn at birth Aztec...
        i hardly think the story would have not
been better with:
the Aztec gallows...
                and this, Egyptian: "tomb"...
but does god throw dice?
            as far as i am concerned...
he's certainly holding the qa'bah in his hand...
   heads of monarchs...
                                    or tails of plumbers?!
the concept of the devil
overthrowing my curiosity of wrath,
sitting upon the cranium-throne of creation
leave them to their own:
           slouching future...
   and what better way to guise the currently
apparent, than the remaining
"joy" of having gambled on an "existence":
with their, predictable...
                          self-flagellating
            tree-stump's-worth-of-"pardonable"
sense of exploration...
                         yes...
i can almost imagine the crucifix
slowly morphing into a budding tree,
with laurel leaves surrounding it...
                                        does god play dice?
perhaps we could make use of
a coin that only had a tier for the use
inter-monarchy: tails-tails...
and a coin that only had a tier for
the use of inter-populace:
                           ah... as we already have...
unless people forget...
     England owns the head of Elizabeth...
since the concept of monarchy
is unchanged...
                      while Poland has a currency
with several heads of the former state...
                     Jagiełło to name the least...
oh but the rosey future is
not the aim of this stalling reality,
   once all: are accounted for...
all and none, a future bound to one:
nonetheless...
          in accordance:
let joy not buckle,
           before the young buck's play...
all in good, and reverent time...
these times require more fervour!
     more!
                 more!
                        the plight of
the roman empire, was never nero's ploy!
causing percussive rumpus
to vibrate like jelly

Me experienced quite disruptive sleep
(quite early in the morning
of November 10th 2022 -
no shut eye could I keep),
hence though exhausted, I share
childlike trait of mine spouse
insufferable playfulness finds me
ready to collapse in a heap.

Missus as inquisitor a worse
fate than death expounded courtesy
the following cheeky verse
about bearing derrière perverse
antic for wife to adopt role of nurse
Ratched she of (One flew over
the cuckoo's nest fame)
the missus every smack
upon me posterior I did curse,
thus poem not for the faint of heart
some or all of material you may find averse.

Meanwhile good n plenty vibrations resonated
felt and heard round the world wide web
(strongest quaking sensations
occurred upon double mattresses atop bed
within apartment unit b44
2 Highland Manor Drive),

but woody d'ya believe
beating, drumming, flagellating
paddling, and whipping gluteus maximus
spurred surging aftershock tremors
launched rocketed tubular *****
(property yours truly).

Imagine slap happy spouse
ain't misbehavin
just being her playful
(think cheeky) self
knick knack paddy whacking

undeservedly thrashing,
pummeling, beating
the living daylights
buttucks long past their prime
formerly cute palm pilot *****,

now subjected courtesy
cruel aging process
wrought ugly human cellulite,
nevertheless I made
feeble attempts to rear up in protest

against asinine wifely antics,
while she obviously disregarded
feebly wailing for nought
me lamely uttering
friggin ****** ****** in vain.

Zee spouse ain't no sadomasochist,
she just thrills
treating gluteus maximus (mine)
as a plaything

(think cat toying with mouse)
thwacking me fleshy behind
until derriere belonging to yours truly
feels comfortably numb.

Thee aforementioned shenanigans
predominantly arise, when
wedded counterpart owns advantage,
whereby I eagerly welcome shut eye

lo and behold only to experience
mine hinny quickly getting smacked
after I barely shuttered these tired eyelids
sneaking couple winks.

What recently began as
whimsical spur of
kickstarting moment
ushering tactile kibitizing
suddenly became nightly ritual,
whereby this humble husband
meekly surrenders bare bottom

(actually partner with skewed enjoyment
at my expense)
pulls off outer clothes
plus underpants (elasticity
long since stretched out)
wallopping me ***
until flesh heavily
spindled, mutilated, lacerated,
fondled and bruised.
If only there was confessional
For atheists.
I wish Catholics didn’t hold an monopoly,
On old men stuffed in wooden boxes,
Who listen and offer a way out.

It would be nice to call a stranger,
Father, and list to him
All my perceived transgressions.
Stuck with me as I give,
A detailed report on all the ways I hate myself.

Put them on every street corner,
No one uses telephone booths
Anyways.
Confession; I am not, and
Have never been a Catholic.

But my life feels awfully close,
To one long Hail Mary.
So I wish Catholics didn’t hold a monopoly,
On old men stuffed in wooden boxes.
White collars pristine and choking back judgement.

Father, don’t cry for me,
Or try and lie about yours.
Just tell me what phrases,
To repeat 30 times so I know when,
I can stop flagellating myself.
causing percussive rumpus

Meanwhile good n plenty vibrations resonated
felt and heard round the world wide web
(strongest quaking sensations
occurred upon double mattresses atop bed
within apartment unit b44
2 Highland Manor Drive),

but woody d'ya believe
drumming, flagellating
and whipping gluteus maximus
spurred surging aftershock tremors
launched rocketed pecker
(property yours truly).

Imagine slap happy spouse
ain't misbehavin
just being her playful
(think cheeky) self
knick knack paddy whacking

undeservedly thrashing,
pummeling, beating
the living daylights
buttucks long past their prime
formerly cute palm pilot *****,

now subjected courtesy
cruel aging process
wrought ugly human cellulite,
nevertheless I made
feeble attempts to rear up in protest

against asinine wifely antics,
while she obviously disregarded
feebly wailing for nought
me lamely uttering
friggin ****** ****** in vain.

Zee spouse ain't no sadomasochist,
she just thrills
treating gluteus maximus (mine)
as a plaything

(think cat toying with mouse)
thwacking me fleshy behind
until derriere belonging to yours truly
feels comfortably numb.

Thee aforementioned shenanigans
predominantly arise, when
wedded counterpart owns advantage,
whereby I eagerly welcome shut eye

lo and behold only to experience
mine hinny quickly getting smacked
after I barely shuttered these tired eyelids
sneaking couple winks.

What recently began as
whimsical spur of
kickstarting moment
ushering tactile kibitizing
suddenly became nightly ritual,
whereby this humble husband
meekly surrenders bare bottom

(actually partner with skewed enjoyment
at my expense)
pulls off outer clothes
plus underpants (elasticity
long since stretched out)
wallopping me ***
until flesh heavily
spindled, lacerated, and bruised.
Knead dull brows knitted;
belief system I cogitate
gearing thee ordinary bipedal hominid
acquiesces to deck the halls
of the mountain (dew) king with boughs
of sister golden haired
sprinkling angel dust
from cremated remains
in bleak midwinter
unwittingly interweaving pagan rituals

tacitly accepted yet quietly jeered
as anathema to march of the kings,
who instilled obedience or death
which layman forswore, whence his loss
of life or limb as mass of cries neared
resounding like tortured souls
self flagellating their inherent
joy to the world,
whereby unsuspecting cynics among
the madding crowd paired
amidst common everyday folk

beckoning ad lib lip-synced first noel
extemporaneously grafting customs
taught when reared
as just a little drummer
boy/girl pipsqueak, since
straying from mainstream religious
parameters scared the silent night
with unimaginable ogres
on the warpath to smite mortal
man/woman with flaming torches
angering unfriendly beasts tiered

inside the city state panning labyrinth
ready for total mortal kombat
while shepherds watched their flock –
as the latter veered
away from getting fleeced
such as this writer,
who might be lambasted
for verging on the brink
of being sacrilegious and/or weird
after forking over a tidy sum
a million bucks? Not by a far stretch.

Please keep on the que tee i.e. hush
regarding this soupy poetic fabrication
bravely bursting buttucks amucks
thus haint wise to mess wit me
lest cha wanna split high knee
a fate worse than death
with hen whoopsy tipsy
daisy excuse employing
faux pas impairment via this Gypsy.

Diabolical harassing lurked
poised – ready to strike yours truly,
when he obliviously frolicked,
during his boyhood carefree
before the onset of self loathing.

Drunk with knowledge
whither hearing, vis (ideally,
liberal commentators I adore),
asper "NON FAKE") news,
more than weather, latest sports score
or reading, (yes of course
out loud applying index finger de rigueur
of right hand as pointer)
poetically mentioned once before
ditto via select publications
(oh...alright TIME Magazine, The Nation,

and/or Mother Jones) all of which boar
like a mellow red bull at four
after midnight, nonetheless, who decrees
(hmm... maybe ludicrous
to ask Jeeves courtesy deplore
able basketcase, but inquisitiveness persists
what body electric discriminates furthermore
freedom of what gets published, or
determines permissible broadcasts
made by Federal Communications Commission
allowing, enabling, and providing galore

of choice morsels pollinating
mass media buzzfeeding popular culture
additionally permitting opinions
shared by *******
investigative journalists,
putting life and limb at risk
nonetheless inherent within constitution delimiter
i.e. bureau to censor radical, subversive, more
treasonous than Socialism
with Iron Maiden on tour
must serve as kickstarter

to stifle: tyranny, mutiny,
anarchy, et cetera and shore
up defenses (perhaps in guise of a
reinforced wall) toward those who ignore
codas defining complex edifice of government
trumpeting defiance, uncivil disobedience,
insouciance, et cetera in an attempt to restore
totalitarianism stripping away inalienable
rights of life, liberty and pursuit
of happiness endowed by a smoothbore!
December 27th, 2023,
the missus pounded mine posterior
(she played paddywhack
on me blimey buttucks)
not only causing contusion,
but flaying percussive rumpus,
where the wild things are
found yours truly feeling
like a cross between a bongo drum
and a Ubangi
(also spelled Ubangui, Ubanghi, or Oubangui).

Meanwhile good n plenty
good vibrations
(cue the Beach Boys) resonated
felt and heard round the world wide web
(strongest quaking sensations
occurred upon double mattresses atop bed
within apartment unit b44
2 Highland Manor Drive),

but woody d'ya believe
drumming, flagellating
and whipping gluteus maximus
spurred surging aftershock tremors
launched rocketed pecker
(property yours truly).

Imagine slap happy spouse
ain't misbehavin
just being her playful
(think cheeky) self
knick knack paddy whacking
give doggone husband reprieve
undeservedly thrashing,
pummeling, beating fleshy derrière
the living daylights
buttucks long past their prime
once formerly cute palm pilot size *****,

now subjected courtesy
cruel aging process
wrought ugly human cellulite,
nevertheless I made
feeble attempts to rear up in protest
against asinine wifely antics,
while she obviously disregarded
feebly wailing for nought
me lamely uttering
friggin ****** ****** in vain.

Zee spouse ain't no sadomasochist,
she just thrills
treating gluteus maximus (mine)
as a plaything
(think cat toying with mouse)
thwacking me fleshy behind
until derriere belonging to yours truly
feels comfortably numb.

Thee aforementioned shenanigans
predominantly arise, when
wedded counterpart owns advantage,
whereby I eagerly welcome shut eye
lo and behold only to experience
mine hinny quickly getting smacked
after I barely shuttered these tired eyelids
sneaking couple winks.

What recently began as
whimsical spur of
kickstarting moment
ushering tactile kibitizing
suddenly became nightly ritual,
whereby this humble husband
meekly surrenders bare bottom
(actually partner with skewed enjoyment
at my expense)
pulls off outer clothes
plus underpants (elasticity
long since stretched out)
wallopping me ***
until flesh heavily
spindled, lacerated, and bruised.

After swatting *****
until backside a deep angry red,
she (the bride of
twenty seven and a half years)
turns me over and spanks the monkey.

— The End —