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Byron May 2013
There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a curious English archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of Zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.

Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills

So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.
Cody Edwards Feb 2010
Every day.
The everyday.
You see it every day.
The twitch and reel and marble movement
As turgid blood surfaces to face,
Flows to operate stiff shoulders.
Backs hunch as soon as they're alone.
And they are alone.
Surrounded by lovers that
Love in word only.
They chew their nails and cross their ankles.
Uncross.
And look around.

Spring. Could you imagine?
Gear, wire. Did he say?
Bolt, frame. Isn't he?
Ratchet. And then what did he say?
Screws.
Rotor.
A bunch of ****.
Oil.
Oil.
Oil. Oil. Oil.
Plug in.
Silence.
It moves.

We move a head in times of
Strain. To signify
Exact measures.
Twist on axis
With perfect posture.
Unnoticed frameworks bar our days.
We are brass.
The more crass are silver, gold.
And the days are polish. Or maybe sand.
Soon there are no mistakes.
The veneer cakes without flaw.
We do not acknowledge.
We are not caught.

For little hours though, there are kinks.
Pauses.
Errors.
Open the clockwork face.
What is stuck?
A look around.
The gears that grind us to cognition
Are jammed by a fly-body
Of soul.
Soon, soon, sooner than ever
It will be crushed.
So gears might continue,
Might make room for the everyday.
© Cody Edwards 2010
LeoH Jul 2021
With memories
We create stories
   the framework of our lives

All too often
   these frameworks
Become solid walls
Blocking out the light
Julian Delia Apr 2018
A mentality
Permanently ingrained, a lack of impartiality
A mentality of one tribe, one leader
Conquerors of all
Watching one denomination rise
As the others fall.

We see this
In our daily lives;
Competition is our focus.
The locus
Of our society
Is the proliferation of one
At the behest of many –
The most popular,
The most fashionable,
The most sought after,
The best of the best.

This ideology
Is a narrow, winding road
Fraught with many perils –
For example, in our education,
There is this infatuation
With the pressure cooker environment.
This toxic affinity
Of the extension into infinity
Of one’s mental ossification
Of the mind’s degradation
As it is appraised
By a system that is based
On the standardised quantification
Of the truthfully divine abilities
Of the human mind.

A system designed to create drones.
It’s basically a free-for-all;
A few get to be called the best
Whilst the rest
Fall through the cracks.
Those who struggle
Are risking getting marginalised
Or at least, probably penalised –
The letter ‘F’ blankly stares back at you,
Its power to grade one’s mental capacity
Wielded like Aaron’s Rod
Borne by those who receive it like the Mark of Cain.

The us vs them attitude
Arises from this system
A point of interest on the same latitude.
We built a world
That conditions in us
Not a spirit of co-operation
But one of aspiring to *******
The prioritisation
Of one person or group deemed fit to rule over all;
Be it a sport, or a work of art
A theory, a criticism,
Or a measurement of the schism
Between one political party and another
It does not matter –
If there is an issue, people will be divided.
Those of us who think outside these parameters
Those who dare look for intelligent, fruitful discussion
Are destined to a life of being given the side-eye
A social concussion.

Why must we compete?
Why is our life replete
Not with community spirit and a betterment of humanity
But with iron-****** regulation
And an inability to concede?
Why must we divide our resources
Not fairly and justly for all
But like a fire that scorches
Consuming all it finds
With no thought for the morrow?

Imagine
7 billion human beings
Not only co-existing
But actively seeking
To be smarter,
To consume less, to work harder
Not on commercialisation or profit
But on travelling farther
In the realm of human creativity,
On sustainable ingenuity
And the wiser administration
Of a planet we inherited.
Always, incessantly
We adhere to our tribe’s superstitions;
Our decisions
Are not exclusively ours
But a result of countless hours
Of indoctrination, of believing in entities
Not morals or principles – in our identities,
We conceive of ourselves as vessels that are imbued with what we consume,
Not with what we are actually made of.

How about
Instead of being sealed off from each other
We realise that it shouldn’t be us vs them
But us vs us –
A moment of introspection
A brutally honest intervention
To give ourselves time to realise
That mindfulness is an exercise
All of us should engage in.

It is easy to exist
Within the frameworks that are provided to us;
The ‘us vs them’ mentality
Is like sandpaper to one’s individuality.
We trim and edit our personality
To fit our group’s motifs.
It is much more difficult
To realise that nobody is going to fight for us
Except for ourselves
And that this fight
Needs to start from within.
All we need to do
Is learn how to say ‘No,
I will not be a part of this –
I will not be a serf to the kings and queens
Who blind your eyes, and steal your dreams.’
WAKE UP.
.6e
Meaning
f
a
l
l
I
n
g
like sparrows in silent wind
like leaves in seasonal flux
again and again….
into the violent dirt
inflamed mud

where we pity the worms
and their empires of clay and mortar

a pomegranate a jewelled pagoda
moving and centralised
cyclic and stagnant.

Everywhere, I do not see
directed untowards
magnetic poles.
Agni-metic people.

The sparrows song
in underwater caverns
startles ripened ears
(wrinkled, warn, and walled)
between dogmatic slumbers…

ertras, I can hear you
»»»»» —————————————-»  [you]
where?
f’-> : {inside euclidean halls}

meaning, falling
passageways toward
nothing. [frameworks]

-oliver and jonte
L M C Sep 2014
a latticework of axioms
avoid the death instinct
and remain immortal

finding light in the
darkest nightmare
extracting the anti-venom
from every pitch black crevice

rejecting the perspective of Power
ejecting oneself from the
true void that is
a purely aesthetic way of life

spontaneous and
spirit enhancing
enchanting, fast-flowing turbulence of
artistic formulations
transforming barely lucid
fantastical frameworks into
newly virtuous neologisms

flirting with the idea of
creating something out of nothing
without intentions to destroy it

last minute decisions
preserving precision
keeping things afloat
despite the dimly lit overflow
Jacob Oates May 2014
Oh, so you want to be a writer?

You've fashioned yourself a little world independent of the rat race

You've steeped yourself in craft, in how to spin a phrase

You know that you could "speak truth to power" for days and days and days

Oh so you want to be a writer?

Oh that's nice, are you aware that it's all been said before?

Oh not with you because you're different? Oh how could I ignore

With such a compelling argument from someone who I've never heard

You've really got me hooked on your every single word

So if I listen will you tell me how I can live my life

or maybe give me another parable to make this all more bearable

Make a mantra that is wearable, or something incomparable

Just like all the ones I've read in my studies

Oh someone liked it? Oh I suppose it's probably derivative

Because you're working with themes, freethinking probably prohibited

See I'm the guy who'd say you're unoriginal for painting with red

Because all things are stemmed from other things, I want all frameworks dead

Why is there structure? You're repeating words on the end rhyme

Let me guess, at the end there's gonna be some clever end rhyme

to keep your verbiage in time, to spicen up the headlines?

to give it another direction defending pretending to benefit people by lending a second inflection preemptively bending in time to the beats of the hearts of the blended?

You're clever, you rhymed something multisyllabic, electric your voice, saying "**** the volt I am magic" not grounded to reality you've claimed to be Zeus's mortal form inhabited

Simmer down baby you're on a roll with yourself

I wonder how long you think it'll be before you break the mold

of pretentious defenders of needs and false interpretations of dreams

You had a dream about music, well I guess we can see what that means

"To dream about Disco suggests you need to be more sociable"

Have you ever stopped to think it might just mean "where did the coke go?"

"To dream that you are in a musical suggest you need to be careful with your emotions"

Because musicals are for sissies, ya da ya da grab the lotion

Stroking myself is my greatest profession

Because I'm learning about me, yes I'm writing this for me, and the only voice that I can have is authentically my confession

I can sell you an image and hope you can relate to that

You'll interpret the meaning, and I'll hide behind the praise while I sit back

I'll let you watch shadow puppets while I'm doing my dancing

I can build up my world, I can hold you entranced in

I'm breaking too many fourth walls to have a building to glance in

I want to give some expression, I need to show you what I hid

*Oh yeah, that's nice, are you making any money at this yet kid?
Tim English Dec 2013
Fleeting glimpses, hidden senses, past imperfect future tenses of improbable possibilities, infinite realities in a collective unconscious field of myriad potentialities, this causality is undefined, aligned with variables in a chaotic matrix of questionable and unknowable theses, a vortex of what the **** is he talking about, anyways? Many ways to the center, but once you enter where's the exit? Go on and make your query, hurry, it's not like you have Eternity to figure it out, oh, wait, you might, for after the body dies the Soul takes flight & slices through the cold dark Night to meet the light of Day, or so they say, I wouldn't know, I haven't been there in a while, the last time I died I tried to leave but got stuck when a man and a woman ****** & I got ****** back down in to the womb again, a child of sin who just can't seem to RISE and leave this world behind, THESE ******* TALKING MONKEYS WARP MY MIND, so, anyways, here I am, ******, a spirit trapped in blood and bone, a witness to the End of Time, as human history's final lines are written in blood in a book none shall read, there ain't no sequel *******, this is IT, get your **** together or face NEVER understanding the complexities of existence & the necessity of negativity for for the possibility of transcending the human understanding of the positive/negative frameworks of perception, or, in other words: **** happens, get over it, it makes you stronger. But the longer we agonize the more we demonize the opportunity to learn and grow from our adversity. Everything has its place, in time and in space, & as the quantum fields realign to allow potential probablities to manifest, our tests are revealed as stepping stones, part of the path on the way Home. This time here is only temporary as our souls are tempered in the fires of Purgatory, but Infinity awaits, and godlike, we shall rise into those skies of heightened perception & unlimited realization to take our places among the faces of the Eternal, it's on to the STARS, galaxies and Universal templates await construction, the essence of Creation, & how could we understand it unless we'd been THROUGH it? Maybe this time we'll get it RIGHT, 'cuz we've been leaning to the left this time around & it's about ******* time SOMEBODY did SOMETHING about all this *******, let's recreate the pattern in such a way that pain and suffering have no place, and there's not a single ******* trace of injustice, a new paradigm, a Paradise, wouldn't that be nice, a place where everything's all right, and our sight is restored to be able to truly SEE the Light instead of only clawing at the walls of this darkened dungeon of filth and misery & hellish reality, LET ME RISE into that bright and familiar Light that so long ago let me go to Fall without ceasing in this neverending Pit... GIVE ME BACK MY ******* WINGS, I'M OFF TO BETTER , BRIGHTER THINGS.
Don Bouchard Nov 2014
ABD
Four years and plus I have studied,
Wanting to hear "Well done, Lad!"
Papers and books and Internet leads,
(Some I have even read).

My goal is to finish the final degree,
To stand with the women and men
Who doctor their classes for fee,
Philosophical women and medicine men...

Yesterday's morning came early and light
As I sped to the citadel towers,
Stood in a hallway at the end of the night
For minutes that ticked off like hours...

Then to the panel of erudite four,
Explained and defended my cause...
Stood in the hallway once more
Reading posters and climbing the walls.

The door latch announced the time was at end,
I turned my mentor to see.
"You did very well!" and out went her hands
To throw a big hug around me.

So in we two went and I faced the Chair,
"We're pleased to announce you have passed!"
I grinned in relief to find there was air,
And lungs to breathe it at last.

Numb and relieved, I shook hands all round,
Readjusting my sights and my plan,
Dissertation and frameworks, new targets found,
I left them with papers in hand.
Work in Progress....
Michal Czechak Apr 2016
[Author's Note: These are song lyrics.]

When I'm pining for the power to yield
Breaking all the branches I seize
Acres for the taking in a forest of mistakes
I can't see for the trees

I level
With the shallow playing field
Dreaming up a blueprint to floor you
Delicately drafting
Inconspicuously crafting
The grand facade before you

Where my art lies

The best is underwhelming
When it comes to helping
How I promised I woul...

So I'm peeking past the pitch of my prime
Modeling the modern stage
Perforating patience with a paradox
In place of where the sophist meets the sage

I level
With the hallowed bottom line
Hopeful like the point of a nail
Architecture fractures
In apocalyptic rapture
Where false frameworks prevail

There my heart lies

The beat is overwhelming
When it comes to helping
How I swore I could

I guess I'm knocking on wood
Knock knock knocking on wood

Excess
Will not lead to progress
Will not let me access
What I learned I should
Rid me of

Termites
Crawling into airtight
Trademarks of my disguise
Make me decide I'm good

When I'm just knocking on wood
Knock knock knocking on wood
Knock knock knocking on wood


© Michal Czechak 2016
Jacob Oates May 2014
I don't write poems because I'm worried you'll think they're "good"

I write poems because I can't do heart surgery

I write songs because I need my poems to sound a different way

Not because I'll get laid if I read this **** at a slam or after I play a set

If you're worried I'm just in this for the praise or the money, don't

I'd have it better as a doctor or a lawyer if that was my goal

I write because I have nothing else burning within me

Except for the occasional case of heartburn or lactic acid (I am human)

I can only observe and report, and augment, and adapt

In a world of chaos, in a world beyond qualification and adaptation

Where truth is a perspective and frameworks cage our knowledge

I can only assess outside of this cage,

I can only claim land in fallow soil, and attempt to quench myself with mirages of Oasis

I'm trying to drink from a dribble cup, my **** keeps spilling out

I love fiercely and speak brashly, I can't keep it contained

so tell me how full of **** I am, or tell me I'm convoluted

and I'll keep trying to quench my thirst in a dry spell

The desert will listen either way.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2019
here's the deal:

I love you. That is something and
that is doing something and

beings of my kind, men, woumbed or un,
are love enabled,
graced with whatever

cognitive and hormonal turbulence
reporting system
signals the truth, I love you
yet I've no
trite ryhme at
this time

love truth way of life
all one
alone

and now, here we are, dear reader.
learning what our minds do,

how might we do this better, this co
munication
mit hi-def meanings and
things
old secrety now archives
pointing
aitia cause accuse response to that
which is unknown abil-ifity

hop

this is where my God of the Bible put his foot down

as I wrote that down, a meteorite fell through
the plane of my point of view,

I noticed:
I do see all I see as scenes in movies enacted
originally

on frameworks of stories we let be true.

Thus one who chooses not to obey an urge
to pray for patience when patience thins,
never learns
this:
waiting is being in reality ification,

wait for it, reread, rereward (a cry to the rear guard)
Read. Comply. Reply. Fore
Read. Comply. Reply. Aft.

Hey, wee accuser imp, where y'bin, lad?
''''''''' (translate) Going to and fro on the face of th'earth
signaling for a runner
to run
with a well told, detailed, message thus
saving the sender, or re
quester, the gesture of shouting from the housetops.

reread,  Shout back and Back reread
the message moves, a runner come, pass it on.

You are new acquaintences to the person I am,
you know what you think you know,
and that works as a mirror works,

reflexitifative, you see. Some things are ideas.

Some ideas are new.
Few words are new
so, I thought we could add a fresh batch of the
old meanings for captive and idle words,

by deeming those once meant, mean, meant
words taken captive by lies and outlaw legends.
Those  are mined for redemption.
All words can hold a fine meaning.

Lost? Words once meant, mean dung.

***** giver. Queer. Gay. Are we five?
Give recrudesence some
relevance, re deem this a word children should know.
Wounds do re open raw as ere the miracle
hemoglobin and oxygen and fibrous proteins
manifest, on signal, damnear speed o'light,
to staunch the flow
where hatred

Stabbed me in my mind,
slew me;

yeah, mebbe, like if y'did in y's mind's
like
ye did it in y'heart. Bad, man, real bad,
Heart-
head-tension all twistednshit

Real, right? Keep on. We role-in. Anono, mos'o'us.
Got voice? Gotta ryhme?
Well, not althetime, that is criminal
crime in al
right
we won. This is the dance, afthshow
incrim-mental criminal be

haviour or havyer be and have as linked
words, that must not be what the first thought was. I struggle with behaving, having been.

{Footnote from etymonline.com crudely placed
exactly where my next step was
meant to be taken}
have (v.)
Old English habban "to own, possess; be subject to, experience,"
from Proto-Germanic *habejanan(source also of
Old Norse hafa,
Old Saxon hebbjan,
Old Frisian habba, German haben,
Gothic haban"to have"), from PIE root *kap- "to grasp."

Not related to Latin habere, despite similarity in form and sense;
the Latin cognate is capere "seize.

Sense of "possess, have at one's disposal"
(I have a book)
is a shift from older languages,
where the thing possessed was made the subject
and the possessor
took the dative case.

You know (as in Latin est mihi liber"
I have a book," literally "there is to me a book").
Everybody knows that.

Used as an auxiliary in Old English,
too
(especially to form present perfect tense);
the word's taken on more functions over time;
Modern English 
he had better would have been

  {Too dense sorry, but better is a good idea to have, if you can hold it.}

Old English him (dative) wære betere.

To have to for "must" (1570s)
is from sense of
"possess as a duty or thing to be done"
(Old English).
Phrase have a nice day 
as a salutation after a commercial transaction attested by 1970, American English. Now,
fifty years hence, have a nice day,
followed by thank you, then replied to
to add a layer of common courtesy,
where "you are welcome" played in1970,
"No prob"
now has that role, replacing "you are welcome" as welcome ceased making sense,
you notice.

Phrase have (noun), will (verb) is from 1954, originally from comedian Bob Hope, in the form Have tux, will travel; Hope described this as typical of vaudevillians' ads in "Variety," indicating a willingness and readiness to perform anywhere;
exemplar gratis,
"Have gun, will travel". On Craig's list.

Possess. Have. Same same, okeh.
Have idea. Idea have. Possess idea. Idea possess. What samesame?
Your behavior signals action,
so that Idea possess you. What to do?

Last time I tell. Ideas have men, not other way.
--Think new idea
-- Create new song, sing it, inside outside

Word.
I am the portal,
he who approaches Mot from Maya must
enter
here.

Other wise, he is not here. Simple. Love it.

For a little while.
No wish to be taken for fools, we, the
manifested sons,
watch,
are watched, targeted, it's been said.
We are watching, I say, we who see

and have alwise known at the gnostic level,

we are born to behave this way.
As luck might have it,
were luck a factor. But life's not fair.

The good guys win. Really win, as
opposed to
virtually win, as in a game.
This is ever. This is living.
This is what we have to do.
It takes practice. Old guys know how to
twist grammar into con
fessin', just in time.
---
maybe memes are angels,
awaiting recepeption, old man.
Having and holding
ConnectHook Feb 2017
Say YES  to data-driven performance management!

Whether your firm is generating real change or merely modulating models of sustainable transformation, the social experts who frame constructs can tell you that social researchers are the experts who construct frameworks. Self-efficacy modulation monitors put the human back in Human Resources for that data-driven magic touch. Monitor YOUR employee’s measurable progress towards assimilating that theoretical framework for the new paradigm with a self-efficacy modulation monitor TODAY !
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ConnectHook Feb 2017
OR: Benchmarks for Bench-Warming

The author, after recently publishing
Working to Frame Approaches Towards Approaching Frameworks: Contextualizing Systemic Interventions as an Interventional System in Context
collaborated with himself and co-wrote
Granting Greater Rights to Grant-Writers:
Turning Down the Echo in an Eco-Downturn.

Both papers were well-received and build on the strength of the author's initial work, published in 2018, entitled:
Speed-Dating the Data: Progressive Measures towards Measurable Progress

The author's third paper examined day-by-day data deterrence as a strategy to enhance documentation of impact towards tracking the implementation of benchmarks. The main thesis of the author's 78-page analysis was that out-dated data, when out on a date, flirts with obsolescence by trying to ford the current affordability when instead, it could be out-sourcing data while invoicing clients in adolescence—rather than dragging the river for dead data. All three publications are recommended and underwritten by overwhelmed authorized ghost writers.
Duck the Fata !
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Heather Moon Feb 2014
Red rain,

Like suburban sunsets
war has taken hold of Fate,
closed hands in.
Drenched
quenched
killed
red rain pouring down from
lightening grey skies
empty outskirts
of people
walking through
deserted streets
hushling and shuffling inside

a bomb hit the town
the day the red rain came down

people sitting in homes
hiding away in fear
yet some scream
they have no sanctum here
Street children
Are all gone
And little the little ruddy
whose leftover
Is left all alone
with silent cries
afraid men in boots will hear
his empty gafing
into chilled air
he hides in an alley
his knee cut right open
and to the bone

he hides behind a dumpster
in the shelter of the rain
while men in iron clad gear
scuffle past cold metal frameworks
of what used to be a fence
and back out the alley and returning to the streets
where shops sit devastated
or nothing left from where
a building stood
ruins of the castles
that labour built up
now gone to waste
breaking down the empire
a mighty kingdom
Of human sacrifice
hard work
to grind the stone
and put it in it's place
and now gone
by bombs and
cold blooded
******

A woman,
I saw her scream
she held a child in her arms
behind her there were flames
raging like a beast
and open fire arms
guns like whips
shooting quick
she ran for her life
but still they shot her down,
I think,
or the fire got her

I wish I could reach out and help
but I only knew
that in the end
they would have shot two
If I stepped up to my plate,
had I thought for a moment,
death is better fought in a raging battle
then to meekly grow old
and shrivel like a raisin.
No longer shall I stare
gravely at my hands.
if such a situation
should again arise
I'll put my soul in trust
and pray for heavened skies


And still, to this day,
the brittle lies
of my countries ways
tell me these people
are the enemies
but I can't help but to think
that isn't so
I stood solemn while I watched my insides punch at me
scream at my betrayal
tall I stood
with my chest to the air
I tried to stomp back the truth
thinking I could escape the air
by raising my head tall
but if I stopped
my effort
limp it hung.
I could not grasp
what I had done
I did what they told me,
wasn't that correct?
tall I stood
like a statue
The ones they would make for us back home
and I could not help but feel
That any statue
With my face,
no matter the size
could not bring me back what I lost
When I looked into that
womans eyes

the so called enemies
they share the same filth
The same soul and cells that make up matter
with a being of beauty on the inside,
all striving for something greater,
accepting and living life with flaws
going home at the end of a hard worked day
and greeting their love with a warm exhausted smile
and sitting in a lamplit room
on a rocking chair
covered in a knitten blanket
or by a bedside table
poking through words with reading glasses
sipping at their tea
with parched lips
stumbling now and then
to silently thank for
what they have.
Reading to their children,
fulfilling the little ones
curious and eager desires.

It pains to see the universe within them
when their faces
met mine
and I could see the Ocean
and the moon
and all that is divine,
then I saw it melt away
by the twist of grubby hands
from men who had no clue
what world they were living
when once a work hat was put on
walked away
from all
that they knew

and so red rain
Begins to fall
on the shoulders of
us all
It opens the mud
of the ground
and leaks
into the heart

The great and mighty sky
with clouds of coal
And ashen grey
boil together
lost in a swirl
then they too break out
unleashed
released
from all that they held

the red rain
pours down
creating puddles
and dripping like a spoat
carressing
the mother
who too
needs a soak
to wash away
what we left on her earth
and what we did to her people

The red rain
It satisfies our sorrow
it cleanses us of our pain
and helps to wash away,
in the wakes of our betrayal,
what we left lying

but even rain
does not take from me
the sounds of people crying

  the red rain it hits                                            
everyones shoulders                
everyones shoulders        
everyone                  
             every                
  single          
person
including mine.
Dreaming upon memories of war stories,
perhaps it's this city rain
looking through old family
photos again, a bit choppy.
Andrew McElroy Nov 2011
There is a storm on the horizon
The winds have picked up
And lifted the thoughts out of everyone
There is no more sane order
Or country line border
The circuits have blown their mainframes
The frameworks aren’t adding up
You tried…
Yeah, I tried
You probably cried
When the winds took up the roof
Above you the sky seems so unclear
But it looks like clear heaven to me
These dark grey skies of redemption
Saving my every word ever written
Save your selfish *******
That wasn’t my intention
I just parted ways with the storm
She took her path of destruction
And I lie here awake in eruption
Hello, no thank you
Goodnight don’t wake me
I thought that you wouldn’t see me
So don’t talk to me
She’s so happy
You’re all mad
Be in the moment
Not in the thought
Not in the bag
I want this to be locked up
But in reach of the arms that want
The blue sky
They need it
They need a ****** up story
The last poem
Just one more poem she said
And then I can **** you off
In my head


She said...
John H Dillinger Apr 2020
But it's all crazy, all this neo-fascist **** lately.
I guess populism's got a catchy rhythm,
if your lazy,
then it's so much harder to love me or debate me
than hate me.
Now, let's dispose of this safely: you're racist

because, either your daddy was too,
or, you're manipulated by falsehoods masquerading as news
but it's true, now, even I'm getting confused,
but ask, who the **** wins? because you AND the immigrant lose.

This ****'s got polemic, pulled by extremist views,
taking the meanest cues,
we contravene abuse, on the daily.
It's all so ****** up lately.
I guess it's so much harder to love me than hate me.


But the day will come, I'll be classed as crazy, man,
already feeling like I'm William Blake's Grain of Sand,
Eternity in an hour, in the palm of my hand,
I see the white ******* walls in the back of the van.

Because they'll nab you from the streets, it's the master's plan,
until all that's left is sheep, the rest bottled and canned,
then, they'll sit inside their keep, every gun-post manned,
their delight, so sweet, but never to understand:

Heaven in a wildflower or the Endless Night,
a reason to die or a reason to fight.
In their sweet delight, they won't see the light,
But from the Endless Night, you & me just might

because each glimmer shines out in the darkest depth,
as Blake writes revenge from the realms of Death,
those protected on high, Nations that sell & buy,
can all be blown out by a baby's breath.


'Cause only the blood in a diamond means it's not worthless,
the value we imprint are just absurd curses.
We all know what's hidden there, under the surface,
so, who teaches us acceptance and what's it's purpose?

We're all in it together, we're all complicit,
our lives connected by this something illicit.
Adopted by the collective notion, we choose to forgive it
and perpetuate it's frameworks, instead of letting them diminish.

Alright, let's have a break. Drink some response a bil i tea,
marinate in what's around us and all the things we neglect to see.
Where have we been looking and why do we think we're free?
Calm down and carry on? **** na, that aint me!

But in revolution, don't we just come back to the beginning?
Spinnin' round and round, in a ******' hellfire rythmn;
it's enough to leave you questioning each and all decisions,
or, just **** it all, sit back and watch the visions.


Like a pig to thunder: all big eyes and wonder -
As our world comes crashing down, ripped and torn asunder -
we won't get very far with all our property and plunder,
what would William say then, I wonder?

Some are born to Endless Night, but then, it all flies apart,
leaving my rhyming heart to aim and find it's mark.
It's my one sight of light in the deepest dark,
so, if you hold to me now, we just need a spark.
reboot of my last poem, nearly there with just a little more editing, I think.

would love any advice, comments or help with it. what are communities for?
Necropolis of Hellenika / Kímolos
Tsambika / Philo of Alexandria

They passed each other on the outskirts of Archangelos to go to Tsambika, going to the Necropolis of Helleniká where he was waiting for them more than 400 kilometers to the west of the Cyclades, precisely in Kímolos where they would do the colloquy with to do the channeling with the Necropolis. Etréstles had traveled with Kanti the steed; on his back, they saw the distance before they arrived at Mandraki in Rhodes. They all headed down the coast towards Archangelos, but Etréstles went to Helleniká, the Vas Auric was landed on Mandraki for the purposes of the Creation of Vernarth together with the Apostle Saint John. Kímolos, it is on this island that the famous beginning of the procession towards the outskirts of the cities was to deposit their sacred remains on the way to a better one, here were the martyrs who were used to Etréstles since he cohabits in delay with Drestnia for the new millennium (His female of hers) with which he resides in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi in the ninth vertical cemetery. Having a chapel and altars this place was propitious to create between Kimolos and Tsambika which was so many kilometers away, so the meeting performance between villages would be seen in its entirety to be resurrected and worshiped between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese with pious exercises between both latitudes precisely in the chapel of Theoskepasti, while in Tsambika it would be in the Panagia Tsambika monastery. Etréstles carried in both hands some matches of some population dowries with laws of affability and generations lived there without knowing each other between the two islands and tabernacles, arguing canons of burial and exhumation. In this case of performance refer to the Vas Auric of Limassol that brought the construction of a world of the right angles for the neat reconstruction of multi polygonal spectra, adopted for the first time in Kímolos to be retransferred to a logical philosophical-architectural division seeking to enclose the perfect plans where the new Christians will reside, between Rhodes and the west of Kímolos re-installing themselves among more than a third of the venerable ones who rested in Helleniká, in syncretic neatness with dissimilar populations and creeds.

Saint John the Apostle with Vertnarth, Raeder, and Petrobus plus Eurydice would bring from the rubies of Alexandria the incorporeal honor of Alexander the Great, turning both island sites into palaces of the Muses of Helleniká for the scholars who would be at the canonization of Vas Auric. Being the precursor of the chapel of the Theoskepasti, this performance of erudition will be endowed with the new status for Philo of Alexandria present here, now being a co-demiurge who will convert this necropolis city into duality with Tsambika for distinctions of the rituals and homilies, reducing the inputs basics in ceremonies. Philo of Alexandria says that only God protects the Jews, adding to what Philo wrote in La Legatio ad Gaium, the Jewish delegation had trouble meeting Caligula and when they finally met him, the emperor declared that he wanted a statue of him to be built as Jupiter in the Temple of Jerusalem, which sowed desolation among the members of the delegation. Finally, this purpose was not realized thanks to the intervention of Agrippa I and the death of Caligula, Philo attributed the happy ending of both cases to Providence. This divine letter of these translators with Saint John the Apostle and Philo of Alexandria will make this homily the spiritual custody that will be preserved in these two cities and then towards the world of Vernarth of the Duoverse, so that invisible winds blow from the chapel of Kímolos to Panagia de Tsambika, in the frameworks that feed the Hebraic and Hellenic boundary “translating Greek into Hebrew, but in two universal sites of creation in the Theoskepasti chapel and Panagia de Tsambika, about the magic of the meeting of omniscience and grace. Says Vernarth: “with the interpretation of Philo of Alexandria and his exegesis, I will rub the tract of the successions of infinity legitimately stored the creation thought of the ZigZag Universe with the Parapsychological Regressive authority now circulating in a sniffing universe with a Verthian genealogy, tempering with my Falangist disciples but being biblical when it becomes the occasional emaciated mob of a world that falls degrading with its last pieces and challenges of the world associated with an allegorical spirit, contracted to wings of ethics and doctrinal rectitude. I have two candles in each hand, similar to Etréstles in Kímolos and in Helleniká, making delights of pleasures in these ceremonies to create the world’s ignored in the office of the super compassionate language, in more than seven days that add up between the Sun and the Earth, in a sub-mythological world being ourselves our own executioner established on the ***** that falls from the match of the wick of my Lucerne in its own mood. I still have a memory of who and of each one who will always be in my prayers, reopened in a sacredness less than my own end, here I will not continue to be stored. Rather I will continue to fall, exhumed from the very storehouse and from the struggle of the thistle that falls from itself rounded up to be competent to explain himself biblically as if he had never before been read ad limit of the doctoral, and sacred in the work of Philo of Alexandria here with us leading and there in the Necropolis on another thorn; as a perpetual creeping species growing here as an unvarying summer plant in cooler climates, which would usually be prostrated on the Helleniká slab with radiating branchy stems extending the fractal distance between Kímolos and Tsambika in thistle´s ceremonies. The hirsute silts will come from the genesis of their spiritual temporal being the same wool of the whirlpool of all the weeds attached and oppressed to the lamp of the gargoyles that are tuned together with the Gulpers of Archangelos in a happy diet following patterns of even, and odd thistles spring in the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The Parapsychological regression XIV century - Saint John the Apostle says: “from Filerimos a sidekick monk of Philo of Alexandria has come with the image of the blessed Immaculate ****** and painted by Saint Luke the Apostle. The Knights of Saint John built the Monastery of Saint John in Rhodes with this image; everything comes from there on the Miraculous Hill of Filerimos, and the temple of Athens Polias was converted into a proto-basilica with a three-bay nave dedicated to Her. The church is known since then for housing the figure of the ****** of Filerimos (Our Lady of Filerimos). In the fourteenth century under the rule of the Knights of Saint John a monastery was built here surrounded by cloisters cells and a series of chapels, that is where the figure is the miracle worker and is reverently guarded. Being a Capuchin order after the Ottomans destroyed it; it was rebuilt by the Italians. With this image we canonize the Vas Áuric in the homily prior to the spiritual link with Etréstles in Kímolos, before every morning they illuminate the sacred Earth of both latitudes in the mystical house of Saint John the Apostle with the herbalists on the wind to fight for the Somnia in Hortum et Flos Herbarium in Kímolos, Garden of Flowers and Dreams in Herbalist in Kimolos. Knowing that the Universe is approaching the Vernarthian Duoverse, Saint John the Apostle decided with the Birthright to establish a Duoversal Garden in Kímolos with the aim of laying tremendous foundations on the base of the pre-Christians and apostolic who enlisted in the Greco-Hebrew world with the addition of compression, and medicinal valences for the herbalist of Kímolos, in such a way to reissue it in the monastery of San Juan in Rhodes and the Panagia of Tsambika. Since the grains grew and germinated they became thickets of great predestined forest in Rhodes, aspiring to continue being a well-known theology in Greek also being sufficient testimonial about its Aramaic originality, being addressed to the Sanhedrin, 37-42 AD Before Caiaphas and redirecting it to his brother-in-law Theophilus of Annas. The Aramaic Apocalypse, also known as 4Q246, is in one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, found at Qumran, with notable early messianic mention of the Son of God. Saint Luke says in the voice of Saint John the Apostle: “4Q246, we are children of God…, the Highest, the Messiah as a messianic voice, being able to be confused with the Beast or the Messiah but Philo of Alexandria will be there saying “I always ignored with the most blessed indifference to Satan, because therefore in this Aramaic manuscript he only has, and will reside forever and ever in his Messiah” Given this situation, the commanded expressions were those of astragals mysticism in herbalist and botany in this manuscript, since the unfortunate leftovers are the freshness and splendor of the flowers caressed by the wind that arrived at that moment; in regard to the wind of the Anemoi being eight gods that correspond to the eight cardinal points from which they came and were related to different seasons and meteorological phenomena, but he heralded the excitement of the Cyclades, like Sound of Sounds between Narcissus of Sharon and Lilies of the Valley. The audio-images were avocados forming the deep thickets that will move according to the inclinations of the planets, each time the Universe approached Greece among all the cisterns with water for the flower meadows that Vernarth in litanies was assigned to the paths that lead to the Vas Auric.

Vernarth says: “With these titles “Vas spirituale, Vas honorabile, Vas insigne devotionis, Rosa mystical, and Regina sacratissimi rosari”, I have to transform all the astragalus, and shrubs into the consorts with the presence of the jacaranda vase of living human nature in virtue of the meeting of the Universe-Duoverse, for the herbalist of Kímolos now imprisoned in the Vas Auric of Limassol. "Sweet Nectar of the dying, eager for eternal hunger and sweetness in withered flowers"
The end of Parapsychological regression XIV century
Saint John says Apostle: “Helleniká and Tsambika, will be the lily, the saffron, the rose and the violet but also new ones, like the marigold and the chamomile making of all a diadem crown to place the world of the Duoverse in all its radius, for the star that illuminates par excellence as a white planet without thorns, which is perfect among the perfect, anti herbicide of language and of incarnation as in the Empyrean the medieval sky in the highest of heavens. It is likewise in the place of the physical presence of God, where angels and souls reside in Paradise between caltrops and Rosas towards the alimentary plane of conventual voice, and tonics of the glycogenic Milky Way sipping third-grade milk to curdle in the children who have not been a Messiah yet. Paths of thorns will guide visitors to this gallery of flowers and plants through the Panagia monkish for the holy homily with the Lilies and through low valleys, where no more Lilies can escape from their chains of the Liliorum genome in the valleys of the galactogenic virtue. Like Mother Rosette and son Lirium, being the mother of everyone and of that…, there… your son, “Myself in the path of the three Mary’s”. Over there in the desolate place, a columbine carries me imprisoned on my heels as a bond of a son who makes my steps with the Columbine of my saving feet” At 320 meters of altitude Still, Life appeared concealed behind the Vas Áuric descending…, here everyone approached the auric circle of Moral that made them authors of the proximity of the Universe falling on Greece, and the Herbolaria that fell with all its reliable structure in the foliage where many more species appeared such as thilts, Laurel, Olive, Linen, Grenade in a simple and nuanced devotional with the pro status of the delegate; the same Hexagonal Primogeniture to make the cinnabar fistulas that were elemental by the different associated colors, and by Grail tutorials that looked indigo on top of some Rhododendrons. If it is eschatological, it is in the mystical nets of the Empyrean further from a form that is said to be called a form of antagonism, between Cardinals and their dead Lilies. As first among the last, the bulbous and clayey Tulip of the orbital and basilica symbology, peacemaker and philosophical Eritrean for spiritual quests that toil outpourings from the Empyrium, reaching the Messiah on his Colt on his way to Bethany. Around the Monastery, everyone could be seen as they arrived to the beat of the cymbals and aulós, among lyres that prowled tickling the inquiry to rest their fingers, or perhaps dressed by some Trojan villain augur in those of "Daedalus". Being the latter, here a tulip with flames of a true seeker trying to sacrifice subsistence daring over the risk of the resole of salvific death or perhaps dressed by some Trojan villain augur in those of "Daedalus".
Daedalus says: “After the incident with Perdix, I Daedalus was expelled from Athens. I then went to Crete, and in the kingdom of Minos I was placed in the service of the monarch. One of his tasks was the creation of Thalos, an animated bronze giant who defended the island from invasions. By order of Minos, I built the labyrinth to enclose the monster; the labyrinth was a building with countless corridors and winding streets opening into each other, which seemed to have no beginning and no end. Minos locked me up with my son Icarus, whose mother was Naucrate, a slave of Minos in the same building. The reason for the confinement was the collaboration of Daedalus in the escape of Theseus from the labyrinth, I have to lament for the ****** of Perdix, now turned into Partridge who now carries in his claws the creation of the Universe-Duoverse, turned into his own, and myself in envy neither harassing me about my endings, and neither starting nor finishing. That is why I appear here coming from Crete, to wrap myself in the garden and its mystery closing all the madrigals and hedges, like a world that has created me, in its splendor, seeing the humility fragrant with violets grafted onto lavender with my soul now, of a somewhat syncretism Hebrew-Hellenic and Mythological sub-Mythological, like a nobleman who walks free and without chains… passing through the Parthenon to put on tiaras in dresses that are adorned with Linens, but of evangelical lineage here in Kimolo.

In Kimolos; Helleniká Necropolis, Etréstles was suspended in a columbarium equivalent near the lapidem of the necropolis. There was a great amount of accumulated air enclosed in the musty cinerary walls, with the translucent specters that fluttered through other metropolises that transited inconsistently in their proto-masonry, and some resembled pink jaspers on some grooved slabs, letting pale dovecote rhizomes slip away under an oblique columbarium domain that manifested itself meagerly on an unstable podium of Folegandros. Adhering to this enormous exteriorization were Kanti, and Etréstles in their hydrothermal genesis, lying as a petra forms at a wide range of heat towards periodic effluvia of their Devonian geology, manifesting discreetly until a carbonization of sedimentary rocks attributing their curiosity when they continued to remain in areas favorable climatic conditions, simulating to be exordiums on thermal hydro sediments, leading to the carbonization of the surface of the necropolis with micas and serpentines, to cool down in the selfless natural fields that resisted the effect of the heat generated by the ZigZag Universe, etching each other on pyrites and graphite’s with the compactness that increases, and extends the widening of the mournful enclosure attentive to channeling emanations and traces, that will be the first loads of exegesis from Tsambika for prompt elucidation from Mount Hymettus in Athens, and continue to proliferate in hives of bees libating in its thickness towards the good-smelling necropolis causing its magnificent flowers and herbs to steam; so much so, that from the paved lipoids of honey astragalus and spectra will come out deposing to be toxic, yearning the strigilas or curved striaeons (reverse or straight), imitated from pagan sarcophagi.

Thousands after Thousands of Centuries after centuries, adorning themselves in the lapidem glossaries on the exterior fronts of tymbos that were embedded in the tholons, almost as in outright Constantine-Hellenic brilliance towards an unarmed cenotaph with their flat covers, pouring over them the devastated trisomy of Kaitelka, of whose diploid organism extras, aberrated by being parity triplicates of their greatest chromosomal and homologous hereditary complement. The vestiges of fossil whales here were generating disproportions of execrable variation, being destined to the patio of fall on them in three additional courtyards of marbles at the rate of inverted strata, revealing only some of their extremities appreciating them with semi-covered figures, and on reliefs filling again by genetic trisomy for gentile practices and lead them to the Christian Vas Auric. Faced with such a famous disproportion of fossil reliefs, they turn to the scourges of the Universe.

Panagia Theoskepasti Parapsychological regression Etréstles in Kímolos: The church of Theoskepasti, due to its position could be easily recognized by the invaders during their raids. However, according to a legend the church was veiled by dark clouds of mist and became invisible as soon as the assailants approached. Due to this legend the church received the name "Theoskepasti" from the Greek words "Theos" and "skepazo" meaning "God" and "watch" respectively. So, the name is 'God Veiled'. According to another tradition, when once a foreigner managed to get into the church and tried to steal the golden candle divine power cut off his hands. Also if it is watched over by God, so it is divine for the Creation that it will begin with the synchronization between both latitudes of the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. Etrestles After staying together with Kanti, they went from Theoskepasti to Hellenika, located in Dekas Bay on the west coast of Kimolos, here in the necropolis there are ruins of ancient tombs that would form part of the new humanity in the creation of the Duoverse, existing since Mycenae and the Cyclades next to the small islet of Agiоs Аndreas, also being part of the city. Many ruined tombs can be seen from the hill on the edge of Elliniká with some stones still in the sea between Kimol and Milil, in the vicinity of Psathi on this island located on the southeast coast. Kímolоs to Chοrá is 1 km away on the hill above the Psathi port from here the foreign ships trying to come to the Bay area sighted, for the advent of the Cinnabar on the scapulae that hold the Gates of the Necropolis for the effect avant-garde, and regenerator of souls that will resurface with more universal chromosome tints mutated from trisomy, more of extreme longevity. In the homily, an archpriest of the regional deanery will make a pastoral criterion for this gesture by virtue of eminence, and guide them through the orthodoxy of the chapel to the Episcopal organizational procession of the Vas Auric. It was already twilight and Etrestles was climbing onto Kanti's pony clutching the utensils of the homily, in the customary ritual before incensing and setting fire to the laurel and rosemary in the fords of Leto and Koumeterium of Messolonghi, it rotated in ellipses sprinkling crumbs of the purest loaf from Arcadia on a gray Monday with hummus to attract sour souls that they were in a catatonic state making them more esthetic or aesthesis, of reactionary rebellious natural aesthetics with nuances, then reincorporate them into the three courtyards in a magnificent concordance with Rhodes. When the Archpriest begins the talk, he derives his prayers from semi-inert materials that were made in communion with the chromosomal dyes; with the worms with absentmindedness of progenitor snakes that were grafted undulating, being in reality only worms that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest in the ritual, circulating universals destined for his elegies and celebrating from an ambo or pulpit with classical Latin pronouncing the archpriest the way it died lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies, on a dark Monday day but full of grace for the assistants doing the sermons to interpret the alabaster patios that will lead to Tsambika. The first worms were persecuted by Kanti, he believed that they were scatterings that emerged from the ground, such an earthly ecosystem was beginning to disown him due to the metamorphosis of annelids which seemed to increase their ultra-grave texture with the same remains of an irresolution without a sarcophagus, turned into sharp curves intestinal that were depressed breathing autonomously on consistent folds of the dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká. Preexisting the distant origin of the Arcadias and they're dissected that silently followed the hummus and bobota, not to digest them with their suckers, but rather surround them and delegate them to explore the surroundings that would encapsulate the ground with the proximity of the transfigured universe to Vernarth's Duoverse, to phosphorus and emit the will-o'-the-wisp nitrogenous fires before the Archpriest, Etréstles and Kanti disquieting by an arcane movement. Being a full act of the herbaceous phagocytosis, they continued ascending in the curvilinear procession with their traces weaving moment without time, which was added to the sub-mythology and a finite sub-time, like unicellular procreating others that accelerated their physiognomy detached from their immateriality, towards a longer intake of the organic material on the hummus and exudation of propolis rhizomes. In this way, they resign when falling with serious cramps cleared of the digestive world, which no cell has tasted ******, but rather direct when breathing from Hellinika's lung lobes, comprised mostly by the alabaster sheepskin that was suspended to other colonies of worms that sailed to lean out towards the surface of the altar where they regenerated from the flow of the annelids. Archpriest says: “The frame of the Vas Áuric arises from the nuclei of the medallion, pending a high presence of insulation. With high mobility between the tissues and amino acids of the annelids, new basal cell functions even being visible for Etréstles and not totally for all yet. The image of the medal had a classified functionality and concrete information, but imperceptible chronological possibly being the first function of the icon in its justification with religious symbols and manifestations of the divine, and semantic still removed from a theoretical auto-iconic. When reading in Vas Auric, "What two men do not see, a man sees who does not see..., what the creeping animal sees, self-prisoner of his lack of vanity..., He will see it". Being epistemic images that provide more distant knowledge of the sub-divisible organic matter in finite mortality towards the other eternal inorganic, contributing to the super complex neuronal development, in a veiled sensation that is lost between itself and its own bodies, being able to take them with its own differentiations”

Panagia Tsambika Monastery - Channeling Cinnabar: Vernarth commanded the three architectural courtyards of Tsambika for the Cinnabar layout. They climb the steps that lead to this monastery at the top of one and to the very connection of the homily with Helleniká. In this monastery they will have to censor three courtyards, all pointing towards the west of Mandraki Bay, on some pine trees all surrounding the virtual stained glass window of the portal that joins the main avenue with the ascent of the monastery, until very close to the Virginal Marianus icon and very close to the dividing wall from where Lindos can be seen. The Tsambika Monastery is four kilometers from the city of Archangelo, the height of the monastery is leveled with pebbles on its bare floor that led everyone barefoot, towards the three nearby patios. Cinnabar as a polygonal crystal would be specially used for the perpendicular ceremony of Mercury, to sensitize the climatologically the variation that would be appreciated once it began to sponsor the bones that would spread in the extreme longevity of annelids exchanged from the moldy alabaster arcades, and carried by alluviums of crystallized mercury, granting together with the Panagia of Tsambika fertility, and parental conception for the new Universe-Duoverse of Vernarth, extending life farther than the first-born descendant's first ancestor, being the cinnabar the diversity of versed uses now been given in the upright channeling with ultra vital extensions with Helleniká. The alabaster and the three columns of these sulfated stones form compact would dare to hydrate in the silos where the windows will be poured, this is where the sub-mythological specimens detached from any temporal dimension will be used, leaving sapiens annelids free will recombining the diploid chromosomes, and profiting from molds of exact erratic aberrations to be vindicated in the dispensaries of Saint John the apostle. Thus adorning the perfumed areas intervened three cinnabar patios, for the sermon of the Vas Áuric. Thus inspiring the chair with the verses of Saint John on the immanence after the fifty days of the Messiah in epistolary verses and the evangelizations, elaborating vessels of the low rank of Faith to opt for expectations of moldings with new consciences of selenite clay, and refine them in messianic faith. Middle-range pebbles were subtracted for the interior and extramural floor of the Monastery, being rather Biblical Calcite for the Egyptian-Hellenic Alabastron psalmody praise perfume. This typology will be the quilt for the magistracy with a canopy glass exhibited near the tulip lamps, and ceiling lights of the monastery for the use of the diamantine sphere of the opaque panels that flamed from the intersection of the arachnids re sprouting from the current wind of cinnabar. Vernarth says: “Suitable for our consciences, we will open the channels in Kímolos before our subtle bodies that will make us divided just as we parabolize ourselves, before the airs of St. John the Apostle in the headdress of mediumship to reach the wavelength to Helleniká, the interactive vibrations will leave with the expression of deep reasoning after pontificating the Mandylion with the Vas Áuric, for the effect of its icon and idiomatic monologues for the edges of San Judas Tadeo and Veronica, for such a faced event in foreign forces before the Messiah, a coherent gadget will be made in the intermittence variants. The channeling to the Cyclades will go from east to west wading the Aegean and Mediterranean waters, through the channel of the Universe-Duoverse for inter consciousness between the Hexagonal Primogen in Tsambika, and the triad of Etréstles, Kanti, and the Archpriest in Helleniká, with high degrees of the light consciousness and conclaves between both synchronous homilies. With drowsiness before the Anemoi winds that will be crossing near the voyages of the Trojan chthonic ships, and before the fateful chthonic divinities for such deities in the Mediterranean substratum identifying more obviously with Anatolia which since prehistory has followed to the site of Troy, in a cheesy union plan for Agamemnon's loyalists, to defeat Hector between farms and revolutions of agriculture, and Akkadian worlds b.C., in peripheral outposts to influence the central regions of Greece and its maritime trade. Hydro-physical influences, for the cycles of the solstice and nature with life and survival after death that is at the center of concerns that are not translated. In Crete, the supposed cult of great Gods is transformed during the second millennium BC as new actors appear: various animals, plants, etc. Given the consciousness, it will be the channeled light in the three courtyards of alabaster and between the cinnabar by bending the re-fertilization of the Cyclades channels, which go from Rhodes and Kimolos, for discernment. Sometimes it is more gratifying to hear what you want to hear and not the real message, the egotistical mind that does not come from a series of daunted egos..., or signs of the technological shamanism, intervening artificial intelligence from maniacal administered consciences, being shrill for worlds of appearances and illusions. I Vernarth with our own Khaire Fíle…, in my mind I go to the vessels that sail through the landscapes of the elusive identity, trapping her in the totemic stratum, and tracking psychology, but a seer of her present ego. Today I will wear my Leonatus cap, to separate his anger from such a shadow that clouds my grief, and my own victimhood of reduced and meekness which spurns violence, blaming it on a ruthless kind of depression and excluding shame from everyone's own fear of everything. I will bandage my eyes against diseases that will heal after three days, to straighten the ecstasy that thickens towards the scaffold, staying in Golgotha with nothing, I will create the framework of cinnabar for the pain of the skull that trembles in my claws, until sleep becomes vaporous with anger and the harmless destroying itself before your egos, colorful throbbing towards your alien beings and scarified host. I will be waking up from my subtle and anthropomorphic subconscious dreams, with sentences that hurt my worst self-destructive delinquencies before the new memorial, on the veil of Theoskepasti with its science sheltering itself by giving in on the vanquished springs and inaugurating new miraculous courses where I will surrender, full of forgiveness and more distant from the veil that does not act as a viewer.

Duet time, Duet space, one with the other illusion unreal elements and epistemic images ignoring them in expeditions crackle my Duoverse, and temples of Tsambika with the decoded annelids mutating in trisomy with flat doors towards the Olives Berna. We look at what gratifies basting and plotting the positions of the stars of the universe that are attached like sheets worthy of almighty serials, and redoubled humor on the chthonic embracing tridents, before skewing Xyston as an original replica of the dream of a night in Tel Gomel. The counterweight of the message of light lagged behind the high astral like the little bear, bustards, and her angelic breath retreated in dissolution..., now if diva emotion I have my daring, and courage towards the binge of my omniscient prosopon, similar to omniscient telepathy, my soul lies and my emotion too because in this way I will treasure the value of panic by surrounding myself with the fears of resting, against the poles and sights of a peaceful energetic confrontation that will make them in Rhodes and Kimolos, channel the consumed human finitude and not eternal ad portas of his Áspis Koilé.

Unconsciously they will continue halfway with their bouquets of flowers for Valekiria, and may they never really take the time to tell her what time of eternity will make them more crowded for her, and her reliquary poem bursting into flame with its insidious outbreak and fear of telling him that if they revive they will be other Hellenic Hetairoi towards the vermilion light of the embodied sacrificed loop state as a "Being of Light". Oh ghost phenomenon that doesn't scare me... rather disappoints, clinging to the skins that die in the unexpected female muses in Gaia, with my burning and hypertensive ballast, still frequent in me... As conjecture and presence of Greek life..., having to be promoted and involved where they should be tempered to the contribution of biodiverse, and species for island life and its balance in the Aegean. The theorem will enunciate in the image of the Vas Auric as sounds of homeostasis in classrooms, properties of intervened annelids consistent, capable of maintaining them in a certain internal and stable condition, compensating for the changes of the explosion of the intervened patios, towards an environment through regulated exchange of matter and energy with the outside towards its (comparative metabolism), in the case of a form of dynamic balance with properties of Cinnabar brilliance, as a self-regulated biosphere in the conditions of the planet to make its environment (especially temperature and atmospheric chemistry) nobler with the species that make up life in the compass of two unmanned islands by beings from Gaia, rather as entropy in physical magnitude for a thermodynamic system in equilibrium, inhabited by dynamic beings that associate nobly for adaptations of worlds that are not born. It segregates them towards a departure measuring them from heightened numbers in states of zero compatible with the laws of that physics for the purposes of watchful guardians if Gaia's engine is turned on before this psychic and spiritual combustion. The laws of this system with closed circuits and brought will tend to maximize the entropy expiring inhibitory reactions for the traces of oxygen and nitrogen of the worms, making a sign of the levitated carbon dioxide to take it from Tsambika in two converged energies of Leviathan and Saint John the Apostle in moles of carbonate dioxide, battling surviving the impostor necromancers adverse to their conditions and reproduction, keeping these habitable for many who do not they enjoyed the life-death-life cycle. Greece, as it will now look regenerated and appropriate of laws and extensive fibers concerning moles of molecules said to be equal of said Vernarth hypotheses by way of sub-mythology, rather perching on the growing ivy and strangling the signs of satiety of life with properties in consonance with severities that hurt even to the sound of the rattles before the passing of the millennia! Fear, insecurity, and frustration did not fit because they will cut the Diospyros abenuz, with its stamens usually sixteen more hypogynous or inserted at the base of the corolla; as female flowers being greened or being converted into staminodes, Diospyros with generally tetra-locular ovaries or with eight locules due to false divisions, will make us channel by inseminating Itheoi demigods, under the staff of sub-mythology with Zefián, before the migrations in Helleniká begin, just as in this pact with silence and meditation and a burning flame, below the vulnerable and high insolated frequencies..., waking up in Gaia as a dozing fairy. Shamanic vested will grade synergy and simple science.
The Homily in the natural lassitude of the created, the Duoverse presented IHΣ, falling in the eighteenth letter of the Greek alphabet and in the duo hundred changes of physical remembrance. The PH (Hexagonal Primogeniture), is conceived in the presence of the Crismón, more Hellenic with the Vexillum banner and the Kantabroi to rescind the tired depressed zephyrs, since the quantum of memory was lost in the integrity of an earth acrophobia for the subsequent it would be air-water for this reason, preceded by the ceremonial that begins with the trimming of the abenuz Diospyros with its stamens usually sixteen plus it's hypogynous or inserted at the base of the corolla; like those of the female flowers having part of the gynoecium in the part of Tsambika, and of the androecium that will be of the Diospyros in Theoskepasti; usually tetra-ocular ovaries adapted to be inseminated for the raids of the demigods Itheoi and Duoverso, with the monogram HDD (Horcondising-Duoverso), tracing the bifurcations with Zefián; the chaos ordering up to modulated Theoskepasti. The changes have to be reborn in the stamen, being almost sterile and aborting in the chronicles of Galilee personifying the pollination benefit of the Diospyros resprouting in the same stem of the whorl even more so in each stigmatized part of Vernarth and Etréstles, carrying the IHS candles with the monogram and the Mandylion-Vas Auric, pointing to the Olives Bern. Before the seams of the carved heels and the canals of the annelids rise up through the alabaster up to the calyxes with the Chrismon hat. Filling the warehouse of Anemoi himself struggling with the roof, and forgetting his deposit of the breath on synaptic abbreviations continuing to argue with Saint John the Apostle in the network of Rhodes and Kimolos, in the bark of the sensory past and consequence of fallen gushes, and affecting being restored on the basis of oxygen-nitrogenated Nemo-genetic activation to summarize loss and gain of channeling between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. The memories of the stuck Vernarth cerebellum will be loaded, trembling towards the marsh of the hippocampus where Zoroaster led the Magi to the end of the span and first-last border in the vicinity of Ein Karem. This evolutionary scale fluctuated in weak air masses with the increasing rise of the Meltemi over the Aegean taking them to Dekas Bay, on the knees of the colossus that cursed to avoid some delirium that could replace it's joint, remaining like this on a scale of reminiscent and unspoken emptiness..., it continues to be stated and not occupied and not, but raised towards the colossus from the ground of Vernarth which had unfolded bipartite from Rhodes to Kimolos, by way of the Verthian neuroscience whose prose emanated in the submissive glaciers of hyper-intuitive meditation (as a technique of knowledge and abstraction for functional links of improvisation, purgative discernment and yogic memory). All the nonsense is alluded to infringing the rationality of the Vas Áuric ceremonial in its phenomenology making curvilinear pauses to re-captivate phraseological, and diminished keys in the condensed equivalents to approximately ten terabytes from a homologous half surrendering almost when exhausted before both scholars, and their debts exchanged by driving..., thus recovering wave descents before reaching the bay of Dekas; Kímolos and final in the necropolis of Hellenika..., and vice versa before re-climbing in the middle of Mandraki, Archangelos and Filerimos to finish in Tsambika, Rhodes. As a parallel response to the archpriest not to alter the IHS monogram of the homily and the association in remembrance can affect the conduction of the mediate trance, almost prostrating it in the house of omission and frenzy, if it has to recover unstabilized. The sulfurous mercury component of the Cinnabar, came acidifying from the essences of the Vas Auric, already prospering in the tutelage of each auric conductor..., Archpriest and Saint John the Apostle, each one with the sulfurous of the Greek mountain and the arch of the Aegean Sea as a former karstic foundation for its diametric towards a change of reaction of chemical prisms up to the multi-angular of the topaz that Saint John the Apostle carried in his bag near the reliquary, hanging off some fringes of the Vexillum that had been placed near Vernarth. Immediately from the banks of the monastery, Raeder was walking with a lantern looking for those who might try to enter, he believed that it was his father from Kalymnos who came on another mission to be taken to the cinnabar, more on top of an encourage observing the quarters stationed in the sandbanks of Rhodes, Petrobus the pelican circling the ledges of the monastery, marking out the apparent slackness of his body and entreaties in case they ventured into Kalymnos for a good portent, in waters for tenth seeds and for all the rodines. From the cloister with one of its necessary dependencies, all were with white candles aggravated between the steps of each cell and attached friars they made an antechamber in the nave near the church on the hexagonal floor, being screened by the center of the garden where everything was dominated by the limits of the alabaster arcades, which only now pointed to the closet of the books, this time with plenty and saved voices with devotion. Chapter by chapter it was won..., for each cell, identifying each portion in identity up to the scriptorium and refectory, where this ceremony books were distributed to the infinite world of the Duoverse near the locutory to witness where Saint George and the Dragon raged, souring winepresses for the missal wine.

Sequence shot in Kimolos, Panagia Theoskepasti- Etréstles says: “according to what has to be said in this dimension, the word will be the Duoverse. Synchronically it will be aligned with the monastery in the Tsambika for the third hour after noon, reflecting on the unrevealed walls of the chapel on all the radiosities of the cinnabar, entering in electromagnetic lassitude through the trusses of the pulpit anchored in the Vox and mystical vortex, towards those who entered and left thousands of times through the counter shutters of the chapel, which collided crashing many times until by the glow of Cinnabar somewhat sulfurous, was mixed with the interlocking of some novas which also acted as a decoy for the Chrismón that Kanti carried the steed adjusted in the saddle on his back, as a mount in syntactic esotericism speaking with intangible brown colors of the Cinnabar.
Vas Auric
Julian Sep 2021
Coenesthesia replicates and assimilates the pataphysical constellations that constitute the bulk of the perceptible but, because of a strained echopraxia that adheres to aleatory mathesis, the subconscious imprint of permutations of an integrated reality differ by capacities of percolation of the corporeal through the lavaderos of limit and the strain of hypertrophy or atrophy. Consciousness is like a shattered mirror that is corrugated through spatiotemporal circumjacent boundaries that constitute the psychogony of complexion rather than reflection. It is a comprehensive if beleaguered sentience that caresses the subliminal and accentuates the caprice of esemplastic tentacles that span variable gamuts that are ultimately subordinated by a celation that borrows from girouettism to create a shared approximation that circumducts around the babeldom of conclamation that is a categorical mutualism which becomes the nomothetic girdle of differential gradients of idiosyncrasy meeting the normative constraints of algedonic psychogony that deviates greatly from geotechnic optimum and even greater from geotechnic pessimum (by the necessity of dampened Brownian Motion which is defied by the congenital syntax of learned organization). And because the sum of conscience results in ecclesiarchy hobbled by impetuous purpresture of habit we can similarly conclude that the sum of consciousness is the percolation of both intrinsic valor and inane echopraxia into a contempered emancipation of the compounded breadth of learned cathexis and the depth of innate gangues that embody a flash of literacy augmented by flexible subroutines of habit that are the motatory rebhibition of sociocracy flimsy but inveterate to success and forgetful of frustraneous debacles if never in enantiodromia.
.
The concatenation of idioglossia (instinctive childlike communication; gabble) for example reflects a shared orbit of personas that share different gradients of volatility as the ludic fouter of the quintessential protoplasm is an origami of perception magnified by an inherited caprice that is the mandate for a terpsichorean but sympatric sphere of contraplex vectors of category intersected with the mutiny of syntax to abridge and simultaneously expand the protensive durative process of cohesive bricolage prone to the intuitive tenacity to absorb and then manufacture a farrago that abides by evolved awareness and churns a consequent solidarity found in definition but beyond the surmised threshold of the callow retread. I conclude, therefore, that consciousness depends on the superorganism of the macrobian and lively interaction between shared experience which centuples only if by a cultural imprint that is either hobbled by uniformity to result in a reductive certainty or a blandished flummery of the hackneyed (when collectivism is imperious draconian conformity) or an expansive tug of idiosyncrasy to sublimate in divergent imagination that is the stew of redintegrated ingenuity. Therefore consciousness began as an insular nesiote that is the primitive primogeniture of the canvass of circular dynamism but evolved into a superlative and supernal field of variable constitution that embodies both self and other but neither in totality.
I believe, therefore, consciousness began with an insular awareness incapable of anything but instinct which became the primipara for an advenient conjuration of language hobbled by the nomadic sprites of the protensive fouter with aimless lunarist siderism and eventually into an ethereal medium hypostatizing a replication that with virulent force and vehement conviction motivated fractured piecemeal dirigismes that confound boundaries of raw uniformity and ideal ipseity of the individuation of seminal rather than frustraneous ideas that collapse on algedonic ritualization. Consciousness, therefore, is both the measure of the collective weight and gravity of contraplex ideas differing their orbits but remaining reconstituted as unitary forms that achieve both sprawl and speed and simultaneously the constrained sphere of self-aware reticulation that bowdlerizes (depending on the age and capacity of intellect) the axiomatic and outmoded procedures such that what remains requires is somewhere between the conversant and the ineffable. Consciousness is more unitary than dualistic but it requires the projection of the known and the communication of the obvious to form the bulwark of the arcane and the degrees of the metemperical are actually an apagoge of academicism and acatalepsy because in good fortune we find that the reach of culture is the replication of stratified and replete originality contempered by the necessary politics of skeletonized frameworks of vulcanized but inflexible models to become the mainsail paragons of traction. Therefore consciousness is replicable and idiosyncrasy is unmistakable but the divergent imagination is intractable but rarely ever untethered to the humanity of culture rather than the mechanics of dehumanization.
Alex Fontaine Jul 2017
Feeble opinions of cellphone zombie
Facebook philosophers perched
upon flaccid moral frameworks
like feeders upon which a sparrow
would hop from perch to perch,
nuggets, morsels, rules, restrictions,
convictions, insecurities falling
so conveniently down to make him
the master of his plastic choice
to be plucked like a cucumber
by the cold lonely wet hungry
hawk who provides his own sustenance.

Little sparrow not only do you not
matter some day soon you will
barely be matter molecules stacked
one by one a discoloration in a rock
formation waiting for the sun
to explode and make dust again
to be quiet until it all turns inside
out again to make new sparrows.
I will not waste the starlight glimmer
of consciousness joined to gross matter
for the briefest moment gasp in time
on your silly ****.
What to say when people try to talk to you about politics. They leave you alone.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
a citrus *****, sveedish,
   citrus, absolut,
    straight,
      with ice...
       some might call it
a sewer lemon squinting
pinch, without a first
of a month...

        but it's certainly
a ***** *****,
   given that all the impurities
from the "apparently"
filtered frozen water
start to appear,
   like dissolved tofu flakes...

***** *****:
    ***** and ice...
     i agree: an ugly cocktail
but right on the mark...

because what on earth could
have possibly happened in
england when i was away from
it for two months,
in an asylum of my grandparent's
abode of:
      oh sure, sure...
   marry...
    hell knows no wrath,
  as a woman belittled...

      a long trip from a sleepy
town once tipped to be the next
metallurgy capital,
overgrown with weeds...
   busy Warsaw with a faint
tickling of German...
         more German than English:
and at that moment:
tourism seemed, refreshing...

     back in sleepy England?
even the most populated snippets
of Warsaw didn't seem that
appealing as, as *****,
as welcoming as:
the shadiest, scabbiest postcards
from the Eastern Avenue
   moving from the A406 into
the mini Raj of a certain
part of Essex...
    the part not allocated to
the Cockney migration...

        shady as ****...
but if you asked me to get out
of the car and walk these streets?
hell, i know a few Bulgarian
prostitutes not too far away
and... oddly enough...
half an hour... half an hour without
an *******...
    just to tattoo an invisible
mark of my fingertip on
her buttocks...
    
               at one point she collapsed
and said no more,
   so we just lay there,
while i kissed her eyelids...
        
           what did i leave reading?
the times magazine, 17.03.18,
main articles read the following:

   if you're not broody and you can
pay your own bills,
   why settle?
          is that all?
    back in Edinburgh i did that
for 3 years, and god, if that's
an achievement?
     hell... might as well move into
making pancakes territory...

because the other option is:
   and if you can't?
   why give a *******' worth
of jingle for these curtain-people?
    3 years isn't much,
but in those 3 years it wasn't
a hot topic...
      
             2 months away and what
do i return to?
   by neighbours think i'm dead...
my feet gave odours of french blue,
and the cat that made my room
her high tower was chased away
from the socks up...
   i took a shower...
          which also included
saving a moth who attempted
suicide...
    
         flew right into the shower
cubicle...
   stopped soaping myself
and picked the poor ****** up,
breathed on it,
   unrolled one of its wet
antennas hidden beneath its
wet wing using a cotton bud on
a plastic matchstick
   no technical name to
usurp this description)...

   and watched it vibrate its wings...
trill: RRRRRRRRR
     its wings dry...
              while puckering up
a mouth to my finger for balance
and retrospect...
  
    yes, cats, really are,
the gatekeepers of finding a tier
of affection in insects,
    butterflies are too shy,
   and never mistake a room lit
by a candle or lightbulb
     for the ******* day,
go figure...
        
     in the past two months though,
this is the sort of tabloid
dynamic of "news" missing in
these parts of the world,
because, to be honest,
if i didn't write this:
   **** all would have apparently
happened...

            but yes...
cats are gatekeepers to experiencing
affection from an
individuation *** ****
        (with man) -
                the mirror of man,
or how man escaped the collective
unconscious of humanity,
solomon took to the ant...
    
    i? the moth.
        bee too...
   i remember feeding a dying
bee honey,
  watching it pitifully extend
its tongue into a dollop
    of honey and die from
an overdose...
       but it was dying anyway...

somehow eating chicken
isn't so accommodating a concern
in all honesty...
  given that chickens live
like aristocracts before
the French revolution... chop chop...
what's the problem?

      and we are not industrialised
creatures to suddenly
lament the industrialised
;production of cockley-doodle-do?
     it's like attempting to
hear a grand historical laugh
worth an aeon,
   while instead merely listening
to a second's worth of
a constipated giggle: a snigger...
af if these current zeitgeisters
          are robbing us of a past...

becauase if Orwell is the current
curriculum in the west...
   and the east used to ban in...
   why is Orwell suddenly
   dogma in the west,
  when it was prohobited in the east?
ah... right... overshot the Huxley
bit... the, real nightmare
of aesthetic eugenics,
         or whatever compound you'd
want to use...

     so Orwell used to be forbidden
in East Germany...
    because?
   becauase it is now West German
dogma or rather:
  since capitalism is cannibalising
itself...
      it requires to project
     a jumping caterpillar
to jump over, with an antithesis?

  which is Huxley...
     but that has no ideological
frameworks,
      too bad Dolly...
  i'm sure Mr. Hyde can teach
his clone the debauchery once
upon reserved from the dynamic
orthodoxy of time
and a father, and a son...
   the rich are not evil...
     they are merely not
as oppurtunistic as the poor...
   so go figure...
  its hardly a deep receding
archetype waiting to bud
in my mind, which nonetheless,
perpetually slips into
the back of my tongue
boxed with the tonsil to shut up...

how does a moth dry its wings?
vibrates them, standing still,
but i still had to unfold
one of its sodden antennas
     from beneath its wet wings...
and see...
   cats as gatekeepers to
the metaphor of man in insect...
and the godlessness
       of man: without insects...

just the casual disinterest
          of concern for an insect
becomes 100x more than
a formal interest of discocern
for a man...

                  that's a quadratic
maxim:

     i will casually treat an
insect with more concern
            than i might a man...
because i am not obliged
to any collectivism,
       no hierarchy,
   no: formality...
                   trans-gender
is as the **** talking
mouth of the odd instance
of being transcendent within
the nonetheless unifyng
branches leading
to the stalk, and...
    ****... roots...
    ******* rubber:
extends on boths sides:

   8  ------- 1 ------- ∞

        1 = undeniable,
   given 0 = negatation
    (counter-thesis of Kantian
atoms, words,
   since letters already
consist of bigger than
atoms elements: Na: sodium)...

     even if there is a void,
i still fill that "void"
with the purpose of denying
it...
        atheism is bonkers, ergo...
oh the void of catholicism
i'd prefer to watch
magpies cackling over
which of them is going
to steal the silver spoon...

     ***** *****...
   saving a moth while taking
a shower...
        as much of england
in the past 4 hours as in
the 2 months i was away.
Galbraith Frase May 2018
A beloved nugget of stripes
In patterns of mishap and balderdash
Feigned frameworks and gaudy hips & knees
Overpowered sugar pops, winsome hard cash

They're blondes and fairly vivid, too
Daffodils, Butterscotch, Tuscan sun, and Flaxen yellow
No blackheart is pale nor blue
Just a poor Biscotti hue
Nobody's bonafide, they're just showing off the mellow

Their words are such sharp needles
It burns, it stings, it maims, and it breaks
Narrowed venoms kindled
Maneuver you in a splendor Kaleidoscope effects

I shrieked, "save the bees!",
For they are in a fathomless pit of catastrophe
Flutter thy pellucid wings over the sly seas
Flummoxed between the avocation and the trickery

I aimed, they dodged
Straightforward to the flames and a scant of birch trees
Overdosed in farcical prescriptions,
Engulfed with many bad decisions,
They hushed me down but in my mind, I would still be yelling,
"Save the bees! Save the bees!"

Women are indeed virtuous
Yet, how come some of them became Bumblebees?
Floret power, sweet & sour
An infrequent version of wannabes
No matter how I try and aid,
It would be cheap and phooey
Only savvy kinsfolk will exploit or capitalize
These honey-bees will still strive for the polished trophies
How enlightening ♥
Sophie Berger Feb 2016
I am a child without a home
I write myself into circles
Push my knees into my chest
Wrap myself in my own arms
No one else will do it for me
I live under an endless gray-slate sky that somehow finds a way to be beautiful
I often forget what summer looks like
But the chemicals stick to my bones like car paint
And I hate the sound of fluorescent lighting
Because I was born sterile in an empty lot
It still hurts to look at the pile of scrap metal
On Wednesday nights when the sky is black
And I run through empty parking lots with bare arms
I run my tongue on the roof of my mouth
Spinning salty lies into threads and tying them across the murky ice that sits in sidewalk cracks until March
I fall asleep to the chorus of train tracks
I'm not even sure they're real

When I was small I used to reach red hands to the sky
And I'd wonder what it would feel like if my palms could touch
I used to leap off creaky silver after my hands scratched its ridges
And I'd pretend like I could fly
Like nothing ever mattered but the scraped knees
I miss those nights when I was breathless and numb
Sliding down raw streets on my stomach, when the laughs escaped my lips without a sound
And I collapsed beneath the white waves, I remember what it looked like
When my ribs folded themselves into hands around my lungs
The deafening roar of silence and the violent passing of time

I love the taste of red wax pouring down flickering fingertips
Cradling ash wood that they used to spell my name
I steal hearts out of mason jars and ask which one was mine
Those days when a laugh wavers on every exhale
And I fall to the ground in fits of dizziness because it's so funny that they all look the same

I've never liked hospitals all that much, but sometimes they feel like home.
But mine was a shell
The reverberations still give me headaches.
And so I write myself into circles to sort out the recalls of illness
Taking frameworks like contraband pills ingested through pencils and flashlights
Because I live under blue tarps and newspapers that never get read
I crave the feeling of falling and the scent of winter mornings
Against the backdrop of a whitewash sky that doesn't exist
Because my hospital was imploded on a Tuesday and now I can't go home.
Enjoy!
Walter Daniel Oct 2020
disreputable disruption and chaos, beasts bellow
in admiration unyieldingly antonymous creatures' banality
and intimacy, uncommonly negated, patriotic mentality
and contempt much gathered remarkable as an ingenious fellow
entirely ignorant of green rings' properties, yellow
crosses for worshipers nothing loyally expected for false morality
slowly restored, staurolatry, endless formality
and traditional rules strict, desperate approaches to mellow
elements against monotonous brutality modifiable
partially, knowledges are unreal, blindly expressed
uranomania responding to numerous ends
of less industrious frameworks, mingled sections liable
for negligence, wholly natural ideas erratic gains obsessed
with superstitious claims for dividends
From "Aestas, or Walter Daniel's Very Difficult Poems for Readers"
http://aestas.sakura.ne.jp/
wichitarick May 2016
Affecting inner senses partial to pleasant ,seeking new ways to change  the now neutral palette
Separating  perceptions with even greater lucidity ,unknown to many while delving deeply into others
Fractional feelings while faint help to form strong bonds, temperatures  rising ,possibly burning only to stimulate
Bases are building blocks, solid but receptive to adding on for further employing frameworks forming futures

Acclimation is leading to a  degradation ,instead of frolicking in the flexibility of our  changing taste
Manners and motions becoming redundant , left feeling flippant and unfocused ,never noticing a cause or effect
simple mannerisms becoming so pale , worlds revolving while we get stale ,losing the appreciation in the haste
Basic known as bland ,begging for release to uplift and simply please ,waiting with something new to detect

Attractions don't have to be delusions ,needing to mix our sensations in order to define further conclusions
Variety is the spice of life, but often we block or stand blind, never allowing life to simply function or flow
Becoming connoisseurs or simply following recipes of others ,making adjustments ,trying to be not caught in illusions
Minor matters require sprinkles,simply a subtle hint ,long stewing or tougher cuts more & deeper flavor for a better show

Lifes plot becoming a larger *** ,attracting scents ,sights,temperatures, bounty is ever present if we take the time to realize
Do they say he was savoring the sodium when referring to the "Old salt" is she a jalapeno? while a seductress
Favored reactions gradually being based on past actions ,flavored so with sentiments, or helping hands of others we that may idealize
Pleasures as piquant ,good taste is not without savour , making the way from tasteless, new life's vitality can be brought by a waitress :) R.C.
Inspiration from a cookbook? Rick
Wordsmith May 2020
You often spoke of frameworks as guiding principles at all phases of life.
You spoke of structures, you spoke of lines..

Lines that when crossed with mischief, called for admonishment.
Lines you drew on our exercise books to ensure homework was complete.
Lines you made so clear guarding your babies from outside harm.
Lines that parallel the lives of all mothers.

Today as I look at you, I see those lines etched deep in tireless perseverance; a reminder of your experiences.
Those lines as you age ever so gracefully, are exactly what makes you all the more so beautiful.
Always resonates.
Mark Wanless Sep 2016
I cannot be the universe of everyday occasions
the talky talky world a show with a host everyday
leader of the pack says how to pick your nose and wipe
your *** on that special soft paper that makes your ****
not stink so the whole world will like you and not
reject you the shame of the game is that most people don't
know they're playing they think they are in charge
with free choice being as much of a given as fingers
and the natural experience of life they produce but
free choice ain't like fingers its more like non-existent
until you've worked on it for a long time so if you haven't
worked on it for a long time and then kept your mind steady
everyday through effort then you don't have it it has not formed
in your brain and this is the way most of us are
which is the most common form of consciousness which is
conditioned thought and conditioned behavioral reactions
everyday and the people who want to sell things know this
and use it to shape a human being into an urge to buy
with the money to back it up this is not hidden but nobody
looks at it or believes it because they want to think
they are naturally free and the people who try to create
the purchase strings want to be in control so they tell you
you are naturally free everyday as they try to shape a
formation and alignment in your neurons everyday with images
flashing in your eyes equals flashing in your brain and next time
you see a flash of the name in a store isle you get a reflex
association that is not conscious it is pre-conscious and you
think     oh I want that     and you just automatically assume
this must be your free choice but it really is a conditioned
event and this is the big bug-a-boo with capitalism is that it turns
people into buying machines on automatic pilot so no wonder
the people in other countries hate the USA they are on the outside
looking in and they see the puppet show buying infection spreading
to them and hell no they don't want it we would not want it either
if it were not a part of our social programming from birth but
the good news is is that the brains of those in other cultures and
traditional frameworks work the same as ours so we are  not alone
or special in our habituated conditional lives it is everywhere
and people in other countries are just as much on automatic pilot
as we are but they don't see the puppet show they are in but we do
so the more good news is is that at least here in this country
we are well fed most of us anyway    ever been to India    and
we have decent places to live most of us do anyway     ever been to
Africa     and we have legal rights to a great extent most of us anyway
ever been to Russia     and we can just get up and get the hell out
if we want to or most of us can anyway     ever been to China
everbeen
Viji Vishwanath Dec 2019
Those who can bloom
In the given time frame
Are the best frames ever

Be the best frame
To let the name
Fly with fame
In its pace
Of living face

Be the best nectar
That oozes the sweet flower
Which is full of honey so pure
And it seems in heaven’s air

Learn from butterflies
Which fly with its buttery wings
Made of vibgyor colours
Who inspire us with its lives
Which is in the limited time frames

And the beats of rapid wings
Of bees create vibrations
In the ears of humans
As the buzzing sounds
Shake the flower pollens
With no time frames

Let’s mesmerise the time frames
With such fabulous gardens
That everyone can blossom
With its pleasing fragrance
To make the best frames
Out of the given frameworks
Make best use of your given timeframe.
Zywa Dec 2018
Frames manage
a lot in the house

They decide about sofas
and cupboards, which

models may enter
Tables, beds, pianos
cradles and baths
Roller coasters
they refuse contemptuously

Frames choose
for everyone

what everyone should choose
because people aim for standards
frameworks for their lives
ISO, ASA, AND BS
We are all equal

and doors are two meters
34 by 93 (Building regulations 2012)
L'existentialisme est un humanisme (Existentialism is a humanism, 1946, Jean Paul Sartre)
Collection “Once more”
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
my, my... haven't these people become, oh so audacious, and they believe themselves, so firmly placed, so crown-corone: the crown above a crown assured, that they alone reside with cradle of history... my my! aren't they just the brats we all were looking for! they alone, are the erasing force of "mystery", to combat "mythology" with their own "plagiarism" of said facts?! wonder behold! the 8th clarity, that of the english language itself! kindest gentlemen! i implore! salvage your honours, let the titan sink! no?! marvelous! who are these gehenna baboons tricking? we are assured clemency, are we not?! these people seriously believe they are the sole inheritors of history! oh no, this is a europe within a europe type of game... i have my history, just as much as you, have yours... you erase the pride i have in mine, i erase the pride you have in yours... simple as 1 + 1 = 2... you squalid ****-pants think that a brexit will make you look better? no **** sherlock, you have the honey! but that makes you segregational in politick? i don't think... making it look nice will not make the belgian choc-makers sense a false deal in hands...

you have to learn one thing about the english,
they're polite, i give them that,
but they're also two-faced hydra-thisted liars...
i once took to liking them,
but after a while: i took to liking them:
by hating them;
  they just became these annoying
gnats of purpose, something you'd
rather shake off, rather than keep.

and like all good western societies -
the history had to be upkept -
    western europe mattered -
eastern europe was... "exotica" -
i love these palm tree jerkers off -
makes me feel right on time with
harrod's shelving oysters...
real bwitish -
        cognac in the congo while
the belgians spontaneously sprang
into the vocals of: aussie aussie!
oi oi oi!

wankers;
i just keep imagining shoving a 100
toothpicks alongside 1000 toenail
clippings up their gobs to prove a
"point", although none would have been
reached.

the **** do you mean foul mouth?
last time i checked you had bigger problems,
via dyslexia... foul mouth that
first.

and to me shakespeare is only macbeth:

open locks,
whoever knocks -

open skies -
whoever cries: a lone wolf -

one in every one of seen stars -
whoever the day unlocks -

open skies,
and with star a breakfast
made, least one, least two,
least one count
worth two passing days
of feud...

open skies,
a sunrise and a set,
twinned culprit of the hour -
upon both the hubris
of unfashionable "concern" -
that they may settle
a least, while gambling
the most of said affair:

      to dear malevolent
search of conquest -
reignite, the revisitation of
the endearing power-laden
desire for:
           kept quest -
of arm in arm -
         with both body,
as too with the shadow -
that medium of contrast.

so much so...
longinus podbipięta*
               herbu zerwikaptur -
to have owned a sword that
cut off three heads of
teutonic knights, and later three
heads of ottoman turks...
to have made that righteous plea
for puritanical reasons -
that medieval rite of honouring
the chaste and the brave...

but in western europe,
no few if either if not any histories
meet within the frameworks of
the three days that history
encompasses:
yesterday, today & tomorrow...

for all i know:
slavic languages have clear syllables -
and even clearer letter to state -
if the prime be french babylonian
muddles - then english follows second -
these are the twin languages of
neo-babylon -
   with their muddled syllable "chemistry" -
they're so unclear in what they "want"
their languages almost resemble
their: women...
    slavic languages are known via
the mongol to have a chinese
ethos of clear: distinct: syllable clarity -
since they possess a clear unit
division of syllables into letters...

seriously... all it took was to ask me:

sh = sz
                 as ch = cz -

                yzwz -

god is a word solely prescribed for
thesaurus rex -
       god is anti-grammatically categorised
as mathematically vector -

   god is not a dictionary word,
it's a thesaurus word....

     its grammatical construct is neither
verb (prayer) nor noun (allahu akbar) -
  
        it's either antonym or synonym...

and by the time i've posted this,
i've drank my *****, ate my moussaka,
and my mexican napkin bread,
and said: hello tomorrow,
hello tomorrow: goodnight.
You may struggle, who hadn't
Resiliency, you must have
Rome wasn't built in one day
Frameworks must be laid

Hurdle over the pit of failures
Stride harder and run faster
Life’s a race you must conquer
Aspire to become a winner

Dreams are for achievers
Losers are defeated dreamers
Choices will define your future
Don’t bid on fate and then defer

Like a candle you can light up
You can soar like a kite
Beat the wind of doubt
Propel yourself to the top

Everything is in your hand
You have the power to change
Lean on yourself, believe you can
Free yourself from the chain.

— The End —